


A February Face

by perkynurples



Series: Love-In-Idleness [2]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Theatre, Bickering, Humor, M/M, Widowed Bard, widowed Thranduil
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-01
Updated: 2020-03-31
Packaged: 2021-02-27 20:13:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 40,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22511554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/perkynurples/pseuds/perkynurples
Summary: Bard returns to the city he grew up in, full of ideas for rejuvenating its scene from his brand new position as Regional Cultural Director, but nothing is ever quite as easy as it seems. Especially when one gets it in one’s head to resurrect Laketown, the once famous festival that no one has dared touch in decades. The city’s resident superstar Thranduil Greenleaf might have the money and the expertise to help him along, but first he would have to willingly agree to spend more than five minutes at a time in the same room with Bard, without insulting his workorhis fashion sense, for that matter...
Relationships: Bard the Bowman/Thranduil
Series: Love-In-Idleness [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1619659
Comments: 88
Kudos: 91





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> _Why, what’s the matter_  
>  _That you have such **a February face**_  
>  _So full of frost, of storm and cloudiness?_  
>   
>  _ **\- Much Ado About Nothing** \- William Shakespeare_  
>   
> Not exactly a sequel, but more of a companion piece to [**Love-In-Idleness**](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2114940/chapters/4614255). Hopefully I've made it so that reading the original story is not that necessary, but you're welcome to it anyway :)

“Da-ad, come up here please! Tilda refuses to compromise!”

That’s more than enough to catch his attention, and Bard sets down the very last of the boxes labeled _Kitchen,_ and takes the ancient wooden stairs by two - already calculating in his mind how long those will last until they need repairs, but also curious to see what argument has broken out in those two minutes he dared leave his children alone.

“Sounds serious, what’s up?”

“There’s no system!” Sigrid announces, frustrated, “we should have come up with a system.”

“For...?” Bard quirks one eyebrow.

“The rooms, Da,” Bain clarifies, “I’m okay with taking the small one, at least it’s all the way on the other side of the hallway. But these two...”

“I want the one with the big window!” Tilda all but stomps her foot, “I want to see out in the garden!”

“And I’ve been _telling her,_ ” Sigrid pinches the bridge of her nose, “she was in your bedroom every other night back in London, there’s no reason for her to live upstairs when there’s a perfectly good room right next to yours down there!”

“That’s not fair!” Tilda pouts, “I want! The big! Window!”

“Alright, alright, jeez,” Bard smiles, reaching for his youngest, who appears for all the world as if the mere fact that she’s the only one being carried right now already means she’s won. “Let’s see this big window.”

The four of them make way into the disputed room, only to find out that it really is _a very big_ window, and a round one at that, overlooking what is, at least for this moment, a very unkempt backyard, complete with the branches of an ancient oak tree pressing up against the somewhat stained glass.

“Oh, honey, these are going to scrape and scratch all day long until we cut them down a bit,” Bard ruffles Tilda’s hair, “better let your sister handle that, huh? What’s wrong with the other room, then?”

“Nothing,” Sigrid sighs, “it’s perfectly fine. You know, first grader-sized. No risk of her falling out _a really big window_ , either.”

“Plus, it really _is_ right next to your bedroom, Da,” Bain shrugs, “come on, Tilds, you can have Sigrid’s room when she leaves for college or something.”

“Oh, yeah, real nice,” Bard’s eldest scowls.

“Really?” Tilda seems intrigued by that, “can I have it on writing?”

“ _In_ writing, darling,” Bard laughs.

“Fine, _in_ writing. When _you_ leave,” she waggles one chubby finger in Sigrid’s face, “the big window is _mine._ ”

Sigrid looks for her part like she might want to argue some more, but fortunately quickly realizes the futility of that, and sighs, throwing her hands up in the air.

“Fine,” she sighs, “whatever you say.”

“Alright, as long as that’s settled,” Bard huffs, setting Tilda down, “let’s finish up with these boxes, yeah? Bain, please help Tilda with hers, into her lovely new room downstairs. I’ll see about unpacking us some plates - or maybe I’ll just give up and we’ll have glorious takeout.”

“Sounds like a very sensible idea, Da,” Bain nods, grabbing Tilda by the hand and leading her back downstairs, already 

“So?” Bard turns to Sigrid, now leaning on the doorframe, gazing into _her_ new room, big window and all, “what do you think?”

“Eh,” she passes her judgment, “a little creepy, but I like it.”

Bard frowns at her.

“I’m kidding,” she grins, “I love it, of course I do. _Lots_ of creaking at night, though, I suspect.”

“Oh, no doubt,” Bard smiles, one arm around her shoulders now as they make their way back to the window, to look out into the garden, “I’m sure your Mum would have written no shortage of stories about the ghosts in the attic, or something.”

The look she casts him is a bit pensive, a bit somber, but then again maybe it’s just the approaching evening quickly stealing all light from inside the room.

“I’m sure,” she says quietly, laying her head on his chest in a display of fondness that’s getting to be a bit rare now that she’s older.

“So can you. Write your stories here, that is,” he reminds her, and she huffs a soft laugh.

“We’ll see.”

Wind picks up outside there and then, and it turns out Bard’s predictions were correct - the branches of the oak tap and scratch at the glass, and he looks to Sigrid to see if _that_ will be an issue, but finds that she’s closed her eyes for the moment, thinking, or perhaps remembering.

“This is going to be good, right?” she declares, more so than she asks, when she looks at him again, and Bard wants to reply swiftly, immediately, certainly, but finds that to be a bit difficult for some reason.

The offer of a job that would have him returning to the city he grew up in came, from one point of view, entirely out of the blue, but the truth is, the change was needed - for Sigrid, just starting high school and lost in that particular way only teenagers who have the entire span of adulthood suddenly stretching out before them can be lost; for Bain, who had been asking for a change of schools for ages, sometimes clearly, sometimes in ways only his father could understand; and for Tilda, who might have more luck finding a first grade more suited to her needs here than bustling London...

Certainly for Bard himself, who had been going through the motions for a while now, but fortunately not long enough to forget to see a challenge and an opportunity when it appeared in his orbit.

“Yeah, I think so,” he smiles, pressing a kiss into Sigrid’s hair, “I really do.”

His work begins, as one might expect, the second he steps into his new office downtown. Bree Community Theatre is the newest one built in the city, not long at all before he himself decided to come back, and it’s bursting at the seams with creativity, with eagerness, that much he can sense right off the bat. People actually _want to_ improve culture here, and his excitement about his job is being rejuvenated in droves.

 _Regional Cultural Director_ might mean much more politicking, much more paperwork, in a bustling, rushed capital like London, but here, he understands very quickly, it will require a very hands-on type of diplomacy. The first meeting he holds in his new capacity, people stare at him half amazed, half frightened, when he welcomes them and thanks them, and shares his vision, but the promise of putting Ered Luin back on the map, theatre and music scene-wise, is a promise and an ideal they all share.

He doesn’t tell them _once upon a time, I promised never to set foot back here. Once upon a time, I thought this city was nothing but boring, dead streets, and nothing to do on Saturday evenings. Once upon a time, I was barely twenty and ready to see the world, and I’m just sorry it took me so long to come back home._

No, he waits until he’s blissfully alone in his cozy new office, to allow himself to feel the first genuine glimpse of hope, and joy, smiling at the picture of his children on his desk. _This is going to be good._

“Mister Bowman,” his assistant knocks on his door then, successfully severing his rather pleasant thread of daydreaming, “your four o’clock is here.”

“Right, yes, of course,” Bard clears his throat, sitting up better, making a mental remark for about the tenth time that week to buy himself a better suit the second he has the time, “let him in, thank you.”

“Bard Bowman, as I live and breathe. It really is you.”

For his part, Gandalf hasn’t aged a day in the years they haven’t seen each other, some sort of secret deal with the devil no doubt, and he shakes Bard’s hand vigorously, sizing him up and down as if Bard were still his pupil, still skipping his classes and eyeballing his assignments.

“Gandalf Greyhame,” Bard smiles, “Professor.”

“Oh, enough of all that, I haven’t been a Professor of _anything_ in quite some time,” Gandalf waves his hand dismissively, accepting the seat offered, crossing his legs and looking at Bard with a distinctly scrutinizing eye. “I didn’t dare believe the rumors were true. Regional Cultural Director. You’ve done well for yourself. You’re absolutely sure Ered Luin is the scene for you?”

“You mean with _you_ pouring your best plays into the place?” Bard laughs, “yes, I’m sure. _Hamlet_ influenced my decision, in part.”

“Oh, you caught that, did you?”

“I did. Magnificent. Of course, I didn’t think then that I’d have an office of my own in this place a couple months later, but there you have it.”

“There you have it,” Gandalf repeats with a smirk, “well, I think we can both agree that a bit of a renaissance is exactly what this city needs. Now, I’ve been doing my best, but I’m delighted to know I’m not on my own anymore.”

“On your own?” Bard inclines his head, “I mean, surely there’s other people interested in this... renaissance, right?”

“Hmm. Have you done the rounds yet?”

Despite himself, Bard sighs - the idea of setting up meetings with about a dozen different important people, every single creative director of every single creative institution in the city, fills him with equal parts anticipation and anxiety. _Lots_ of hands on work.

“Not yet,” he admits, “I was kind of hoping you might be able to help me with that, a little bit. Tell me where to start, at least.”

“That depends,” Gandalf offers a lopsided smile, “whether you want to get the worst over with first, or start yourself off easy.”

“The worst first,” he blurts out quickly, and they both laugh. “Sorry. I’m sure it won’t be that bad.”

“Well, if you start at Mirkwood, I’m sure everything else will seem much easier in comparison.”

“Mirkwood... Performing Arts, is it?” Bard searches his memory, “the academy?”

“That’s the one. Familiar with Thranduil Greenleaf?”

“Who isn’t?” Bard chuckles, “I’ve only ever seen him on screen, though, we were never introduced. He was a couple years ahead of me at school.”

“That he was, yes. A piece of work, that one, on _or_ off screen. But, instrumental in keeping the culture around here ticking.”

“Then I need to meet with him, soon,” Bard nods.

“And you need to let me know how _that_ went,” Gandalf snickers, “but, if you happen to want to start out the easy way... here.”

He hands him an inconspicuous looking envelope, and out slides a glossy ticket for the most talked about play of not only this summer, but many more summers to come, Bard suspects.

“Oh, but you shouldn’t have- you know, I wanted to go see it, but it’s so hopelessly sold out...”

“That it is,” Gandalf sounds very pleased with himself, “but you can’t very well be a Regional Director here without seeing the one thing that’s made the region lose its collective mind, can you?”

Such an unabashed display of vanity and self flattery would stink in virtually any other case, but when it comes to Gandalf, and his inspired, refreshing, _unexpected_ rendition of _A Midsummer Night’s Dream_ , the praise is more than well deserved. It might have been his _Hamlet_ that first piqued Bard’s attention, but it’s _Midsummer_ that he’s been reading about all summer long, that’s made him believe what he had only been toying with before - that some sort of spark of life really _has_ returned to Ered Luin’s culture, and the time to be a part of it again, after all those years, was _now._

“Thank you for this,” he smiles, “really. Will I see you there?”

“Probably,” Gandalf nods, “these days, I usually find an excuse to stay for the shows. I’ll make sure to introduce you to Dis Oakenshield, that’s your person of interest in Erebor. _And_ one of the reasons _that’s_ the easy way to start.”

“Understood,” Bard grins, turning the ticket over in his hands, admiring it. “In two weeks’ time, huh? I was hoping to have started by then. Suppose I’ll just have to work my way from the bottom up.”

“Don’t let Thranduil Greenleaf hear you use that particular wording,” Gandalf laughs, and very genuinely at that, but there’s still something in the way he looks at Bard, like he half expects him to change his mind, to decide that this isn’t worth it after all, the change, the work, the dedication... 

_I’ll convince you,_ Bard decides. _Just... you know, the second I manage to convince myself._

He emails Mirkwood later that very day - doesn’t expect a swift reply, or any reply for that matter, and so he has his assistant call Thranduil Greenleaf’s assistant (the day he stops feeling profoundly strange about communicating through _assistants_ will be the day he’s irreparably changed for the worse), to no avail either. Three times in a row, that’s three days wasted, and he’s almost decided to give up and begin elsewhere, when a reply finally arrives.

 _Booked solid for the next month or so,_ he is informed, _but you are cordially invited to Monday’s beginning of the school year address..._ And Bard thinks, because his instinct for snatching up opportunities hasn’t failed him yet, _ah. There it is. An opening._

He probably should have taken some time to recalibrate his instinct to serve him better in this new, old, city, but alas, everybody learns from their mistakes.

Blissfully unaware of the ripple effect his decision will have caused, he drives over to Mirkwood after a weekend spent setting up everything that needs setting up in their new house, which mostly means picking out paints for all the respective children’s bedrooms without batting an eyelash at their choices, and making sure they unpack at least _some_ of their belongings once the walls dry. When Monday rolls around, he feels that much steadier on his feet, even though the rush is only just beginning - both schools have been secured, Sigrid’s comfortably close to Bain’s and Tilda’s, and he has _time,_ time to do what needs to be done.

The Mirkwood Performing Arts Academy hides in a surprisingly remote part of the city, nowhere near the bustling center, and he almost doesn’t see it at first, driving up to it and searching for a parking spot. It’s incorporated thoughtfully into the surrounding architecture so that its walls line up seamlessly with the much older fences and buildings around it, and manage very well to never betray the true scope of what awaits him inside.

The place is a forest, there’s no better way to describe it. Everything is very modern but strangely warm, wooden walls and wooden floors, and there are plants _everywhere._ A sprawling garden, no doubt allowing the students here to spend their leisure time in a rather astonishing fashion, is the center of it all, the academy’s numerous buildings encircling it, and it is also there that the majority of people seem to be congregating.

Just another guest in the humbug, Bard is more than happy to wander a bit - nobody recognizes him, why should they, which suits him immensely, and for a while, he entertains himself with trying to imagine what it might be like, earning enough money to actually send at least one of his children here, let alone all three. Can’t argue with the results, no matter the price, though - four of these students, coming up on their senior year, have been spending the summer performing in front one of the most excitable audiences in Erebor’s _Midsummer,_ and if that isn’t a glowing endorsement, Bard doesn’t know what is.

Oh, and there they are - the kids, that is, apparently about to perform a stint from the play, which has everyone, not only Bard, immensely excited. Thranduil Greenleaf’s son is impossible not to recognize, a spitting image of his superstar father, tall, lean and elegant, and of course that trademark platinum mane... Bard is just as surprised as the next person when, instead of actually playing, Legolas Greenleaf and his entourage briefly search for a rhythm and spit their lines in a perfect staccato of properly hilarious rapping, instead of the usual stilted delivery reserved for grand auditoriums and the such. He joins the thunderous applause at the end of _that_ without hesitation, and then the Principal himself takes the stage, and Bard is suddenly shielding his eyes against the sun, literally and otherwise.

“Welcome, everyone,” Thranduil Greenleaf addresses the crowd, and yes, it really _is_ the very Thranduil Greenleaf of movie poster fame, the very same person who accepted an Oscar several years back in a burgundy velvet suit that would have looked atrocious on literally _anybody_ who wasn’t Thranduil Greenleaf, and made Bard laugh so hard, half indignation half sincere amusement, when he dedicated his winning speech to the urgent need to _protect the craft from too many risque influences,_ that he ended up throwing popcorn at the TV.

But here, today, he looks almost laid back, in a very fetching linen ensemble that probably cost _someone’s_ yearly tuition anyway, and he speaks of his students, the academy’s plans and promises for them, with such a passion and conviction that Bard can’t help but look at him in a different light. Nobody who dedicates horrendous amounts of their time _and_ money to providing education for children can be _that much_ of a diva, surely. _Cold, distant, unapproachable, exceedingly private_ and _impossibly demanding_ are just some of the adjectives the media frequently use to describe him, but Bard will be reserving his judgment until he actually meets him in person...

The opportunity for which arrives, as with all things designed to turn one’s life upside down when one’s not looking, quite a bit sooner than he’d anticipated.

The speech concludes to another round of applause, and Bard gets a call immediately, which has him swearing under his breath and running off to find a spot of peace and quiet, since the garden gathering dissolves into little groups of people who know each other, chattering all at once, and then of course there’s the gaggle of journalists surrounding Greenleaf, and he certainly wants to avoid all _that._

It’s seemingly even louder on the inside, children hurrying everywhere - the school year actually _is_ beginning, Bard needs to remind himself, sparing a thought for his children in their respective very new environments - and his assistant tries very hard to relay the morning’s info to him, but it’s no use.

“Alright, just,” Bard grunts, taking the stairs by two to... god knows where, “let me call you back, please? The second I’m out of here. I’ll be in the office in like thirty minutes, I swear.”

“I’ll hold you to that, sir,” the incessantly peppy young thing reminds him somewhat nervously, and hangs up.

“...And I’m lost,” Bard announces to an empty hallway he doesn’t recognize in the slightest - it’s grown almost eerily quiet, all the kids disappearing into their respective classrooms, and he feels very much like he’s intruding, all of a sudden.

“Oh, I wasn’t aware you’d decided to spring a press meeting on me, after all.”

And _that’s_ \- yeah, that’s Thranduil Greenleaf, appearing atop the staircase as if he sort of just decided to materialize there out of thin air, glaring from Bard to _his_ assistant, distinctly displeased.

“No, sir, I didn’t schedule anything,” the assistant hurries to repair her reputation, “I don’t know who this man is. He must have slipped past us, I-”

“No interviews,” Thranduil raises one hand firmly, floating past Bard without a second look, “especially not today.”

“Oh, I’m not a journalist,” Bard replies, turning around swiftly - his instinct _and_ his propensity for recklessness seem to have decided to work in tandem to propel him forward. “I was actually hoping to speak to you as... that is, from my capacity as the new Regional Cultural Director.”

That seems to have _some_ effect on the man at least, and he stops before the door to what must be his office, and gives Bard a very judgmental once-over.

“You?” he all but sneers at him, and Bard thinks, _alright, as good an invitation as any. Start at the bottom, work your way up._

“Yes, me,” he nods, closing the distance between them, his hand already outstretched, “Bard Bowman, pleased to meet you. I did try to set up a meeting through more... traditional channels, but I understand you are a very busy man...”

“So you thought it prudent to just,” the next two words leave his mouth with a great bitterness, like he himself can’t believe he’s saying them, “ _show up_ , out of the blue?”

“Oh, I actually did receive an invitation from your office,” Bard smiles very amicably, “for your beginning of the school year address. Wonderful job, by the way, very, uh... inspirational.”

“Huh,” Greenleaf shoots a sharp look to his assistant cowering behind Bard, “did you now. Well. That was hardly an invitation for anything more than that, you see.”

Despite his words, he finally shakes Bard’s hand, firmly, curtly, and measures him like he isn’t quite certain he’s real... It’s when his eyes widen almost imperceptibly, that Bard realizes _something_ just happened.

A lone man wielding a rather impressive camera stands by the stairs, and Bard’s brain stalls and stutters, before it finally dawns on him - he just took a picture of him... them.

“Oh, for heaven’s sakes,” Greenleaf rolls his eyes, no doubt an everyday occurrence to _him,_ instructing his assistant with cold efficiency, “take care of _that,_ Erica. Director, step into my office, won’t you?”

And before Bard can agree _or_ argue, he is quite unceremoniously all but shoved inside the nearest room, and Thranduil closes the door behind them with a dull thud.

“My apologies for _that,_ ” he hisses, moving past Bard into the spacious office, “we usually have... measures in place to avoid it. No paparazzi on Academy soil, and all that, but clearly there’s been an oversight. Now... Are you really who you say you are? The new Cultural Director?”

“Well, I...” Bard is somewhat distracted by the frankly splendid decor of the airy room, “of course I am, who else would I be? Don’t have anywhere to fit a camera that size, don’t worry.”

For his part, Greenleaf seems almost surprised, before the tiniest hint of a smirk flashes across his face.

“A relief. Well, since I’m going to have to stay here for a couple more minutes before _that_ is taken care of, I might as well listen to what you’ve got to say. Please, take a seat. Drink?”

“No, thank you,” Bard clears his throat, accepting the chair offered, “and I really did mean it when I said I’d tried to set up an actual meeting.”

“Well, I’m glad to hear that,” Thranduil smiles coolly.

“But here’s the thing - I really do want to get started as soon as possible. There’s not a whole lot of time for what I have in mind, you see, and I would really love for as many people as possible to get involved. I presume you remember Laketown?”

If Thranduil holds any sort of emotion attached to that name, he hides it well - his eyes simply narrow a bit more, and he crosses his arms over his chest, the two of them now sitting opposite each other.

“Yes, of course, the festival. Difficult to forget.”

“I think so, too. That’s why I really want to find a way to bring it back.”

Thranduil laughs at that, genuine amusement but also that very palpable undercurrent of derision, which is not at all unexpected, and Bard continues to hold his gaze without so much as a fidget.

“Oh, you’re serious,” Greenleaf huffs, leaning back in his chair, weighing over his next question for quite some time, before posing a simple: “Why?”

And for that, Bard has been preparing for ages - only he hardly expected to hear it first from Thranduil Greenleaf, of all people.

“Well, because it was wonderful,” he replies plainly, and can already see the man protesting, so he hurries to build his pitch: “I remember it, growing up, as I’m sure you do, too. The amount of artistry, of creative spirit it brought in and inspired, was frankly astonishing. Now, I don’t mean to merely rehash what’s been done a thousand times before, in a thousand different places, but Laketown was special. It enabled people from all walks of life to simply stop by and appreciate theatre and music in a different setting, more relaxed, more open. It returned to the very roots of what _performing_ means, and I really do believe that the potential is still there. Ered Luin has so many great theatres, so many wonderful clubs playing fresh music, and joining all of those together could shine a light on this entire scene, which is sorely needed, especially now that funding for art is being cut left and right across the entire country-”

“And how familiar _are you_ exactly with _this entire scene?_ ” Thranduil interrupts his, in his own opinion, rather rousing speech.

“How do you mean?” Bard squints at him.

“I mean,” Greenleaf sighs, as if he’s simply dealing with another one of his misbehaving students, “did you stop to consider that _the scene_ might not be interested in your help? Of all those _great_ theatres and _wonderful_ clubs, which ones have agreed to participate?”

“Well, I thought I would start-” _don’t say at the bottom, don’t say at the bottom,_ “right here.”

“Ha!” Thranduil scoffs, “and therein lies your problem. No planning involved whatsoever. Not bothering to find out who the right people to talk to might be-”

“Implying _you_ aren’t?”

“ _Implying,_ ” Greenleaf’s smile has such a cuttingly sharp edge to it that it gives Bard pause, “you don’t actually know what you’re doing, _Cultural Director._ It’s a thrilling idea, on paper. Go on, talk to a couple of people, pitch your pitch. They will all tell you the same thing I’m telling you right now, trying in vain to save you some time - Ered Luin’s culture needs a great many things, but Laketown is a thing of the past, and it should _stay_ in the past.”

“Agree to disagree,” Bard parries him swiftly, “if you were to just consider the economic impact-”

“ _The economic impact_ has nothing to do with the fact that this simply isn’t the right time for something of this size and scope to-”

“Yes, that is precisely what people have been saying _for the past twenty years._ I’m thinking it just _might be time_ to reconsider, don’t you?”

“Bold,” Thranduil spits, and it sounds more like _stupid,_ “I think you’ll soon find that Ered Luin has a remarkable knack for staying afloat in spite of _new influences_ trying to rock the boat, so to speak.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, I was under the impression that your wonderful Academy was sponsoring just one such _new influence,_ happening about two theatres away from here. Bottom line is,” Bard stands up, smoothing down the front of his somewhat crumpled suit, a bit proud of himself if he’s being honest that he’s managed to keep his voice level up until this point, “Laketown is happening, with or without you playing a part.”

“If you say so, _Director_ ,” Thranduil offers an ice cold smile, up on his feet now as well and still making Bard’s title sound like an insult, clearly more than happy to show him out now. “It was a pleasure.”

“All mine,” Bard smirks sourly, accepting the hand offered, taking care not to crush any superstar fingers (probably insured), but only barely.

“Oh, and one more thing,” Greenleaf stops him when he’s halfway out the door, and when Bard turns to look at him, back gazes a calm amusement that he now _knows_ is going to _keep_ driving him insane.

“Yes?”

“I thought it fair to warn you - the picture that man took of us will probably appear _somewhere_ in the coming days, be it online or on a newsstand. Don’t be alarmed.”

“Oh - I see. Well, thank you, I suppose.”

“Yes. And if you really intend to tour the city preaching your outlandish ideas, it might not be the last time that happened. I suggest you invest in a better suit.”

“I beg your pardon?” Bard huffs, his hands instinctively shooting up to the lapels of his... yes, ancient fading off the rack thing, and Thranduil comments on that with a truly wolfish smirk.

“You heard me. If you truly want to make an impression as our new Cultural Director, get. Your hands. On a better suit. God forbid we ever appear in a picture together again, and you’re wearing _that._ ”

Instead of coming up with a perfect snide comeback, Bard simply thinks back to the velvet monstrosity Thranduil Greenleaf dared to wear to the Oscars, and dared to look so unfairly good in, and laughs, sincerely and loudly.

“You know,” he offers the man a smile which seems to have at least _some sort_ of a lasting effect, “that might just be the very first piece of genuine advice you’ve given me today. Be seeing you!”

Nothing’s felt as good _in a long time_ as walking out of Thranduil Greenleaf’s office and shutting the door on him feels that day, and Bard’s smiling to himself long after he’s navigated his way out of the labyrinthine hallways of the man’s academy.

 _Right,_ he decides, _this really is going to be something, isn’t it._

* * *

All of it really does start with that godforsaken rendition of _Midsummer_ at Erebor. When Thranduil first hears about it he laughs, but it has Gandalf Greyhame’s name attached to it, quite firmly it seems, and that’s nothing to sneer at. Besides there is _a deal,_ an ancient one, yes, but a deal nevertheless, and he must honor it, no matter how much he would like to do anything but, not involve himself, and certainly _not_ involve his students...

The first readthrough he accompanies his son and a select few others to, the material is raw, unpolished, but Gandalf is there, and so is Bilbo Baggins, because apparently _some_ rumors happen to be true, and within his first hour back at Erebor, Thranduil can be seen arguing with Thorin Oakenshield as if they’re both one-upping each other in classes still, and despite himself, he feels... if not excitement, then certainly some sort of expectation.

And so he pledges his money, and his resources, _and_ his child, to the production, and frankly, looking back, that’s where his problems might have begun _really_ piling up.

He can’t really put a finger on it, when the transition happened from despising even coming near Erebor, to being interested in... well, _officially_ in seeing his investment play out, which manifests itself in spending much more time than he technically _has_ in the old theatre’s echoing hallways, but he suspects Dis Oakenshield’s propensity for annoying him into small talk might have something to do with it.

They spent the entirety of this uncharacteristically hot summer butting heads over this and that, arguing and debating the thousands upon thousands of issues that inevitably spawned around a production of this magnitude, and where once Thranduil hoped for nothing more than this thing to conclude with minimal losses, and for his son to survive the onslaught of six shows a week unscathed, he has somehow, through no fault of his own he suspects, managed to become a part of something very successful, and make a very unlikely friend in the process.

“Oh, so you did decide to come, after all. How nice.”  
“Yes, yes, I’m here,” he rolls his eyes even as he’s turning to intercept the familiar voice - Dis is, as always, stunning in that understated way of hers, and she’s handing him a glass of bubbly, and, well, who is he to refuse free alcohol?

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” he adds, and her bitter smirk mirrors his perfectly - _friendship_ might perhaps be too strong a word for what they have, but she’s far more approachable than her brother, that’s for sure. Thorin is always a delight to rile up and annoy whenever they’re in the same room for more than a minute at a time, but his sister is far more capable of taking Thranduil’s particular brand of humor in stride, and fending him off at the same time. Anyone who can spar and keep up with him so effortlessly when it comes to sarcasm, he inevitably ends up liking at least a little bit.

“Well, I’m going to point you in the direction of suits to smile at later,” she sighs, alluding to the part of their evening that includes actual work, _securing_ things and _convincing_ people, “for now, let’s just toast, because I don’t know about you, but I still can’t believe this is actually coming to an end.”

“There’s still two more weeks to go,” he points out as their glasses clink, and watches her as she downs hers.

“Oh, please, that’s nothing. Feels like the entire summer went by like-” she snaps her fingers sharply, “ _this._ ”

“Hmm,” he agrees noncommittally.

“I know this is just another successfully concluded business transaction for _you,_ ” she offers a smirk, “but for us, it’s... well. Everything.” 

He’d argue with her, tell her that to him, too, _Midsummer_ has brought a sorely needed whiff of fresh air, has never failed to intrigue _or_ entertain him, but he refrains from saying anything at all - at the end of the day, it is _her_ theatre that needed saving, _her_ people who needed the new material, needed to challenge themselves and prove to themselves that they _can_ do this, and for his part, Thranduil is simply glad to have provided a few small, albeit essential cogs that made the machine go. Not that anybody needs to know that, of course - he’s not in the business of making things personal.

“Oh... can I leave you alone for five minutes?” she raises her hand in a wave, meant for someone somewhere on the other side of the foyer, “I’ll be right back.”

“I can entertain myself,” he snickers, and she sends a wink his way before disappearing into the crowd.

 _For us, it’s everything._ He doesn’t think he ever truly took the idea of Erebor closing down seriously, partly because he didn’t bother to know the full scope of their problems, financial and otherwise, and partly because it was simply unimaginable - as different as as his and Dis’ ideas about running things might be, the ancient theatre has been a staple of the Ered Luin scene for decades, and losing it... Impossible. Not that he would ever freely admit to nostalgia, of course.

No, as far as the general public knows, he is here tonight to oversee his son, oversee his money being put to good use, and quite possibly also the free alcohol that comes as a perk of the VIP boxes, now that Erebor can actually afford both of those things.

“Mister Greenleaf. Fancy seeing you here.”

Come to think of it, he should have carried a glass in _each_ hand, just to be able to fend off any and all surprises this night evidently still has in store for him.

“ _Director_ Bowman,” he summons up his very best coldly polite smile, which falters somewhat when he gives the man a bit of his attention after all and sees... well, improvement. “I see you took my advice to heart. That _is_ a marginally nicer looking suit.”

“Why thank you,” the man actually _laughs,_ fingers running down the glossy indigo fabric of his lapels, and is it suddenly warmer in the room? “I suppose I need to adapt, at least a little bit. You know, I’m actually _hoping_ someone might take a picture of me in this.”

“Right,” Thranduil chuckles into his champagne, “still on your rampage then, are you? Still knocking on every door, trying to sell Laketown to unsuspecting townsfolk?”

“What can I say,” Bard grins, “can’t quit while I’m ahead.”

“Oh? You’ve had luck, then?”

It’s been roughly two weeks since the man barged into his office at the academy, and Thranduil would frankly be lying if he said he hasn’t given that unlikely visit _some_ thought. Bringing the Laketown festival back to life after all these years is an idea so ludicrous he can’t even begin to comprehend what might drive anyone to consider it, but far be it from him to begrudge this newcomer his fantasies.

“Some,” Bard nods, “but don’t worry, I won’t bother you again. Tonight, I’m just here to see the play.”

“And?” Thranduil quirks one eyebrow, “thoughts on the first half?”

“Oh, it’s absolutely astonishing,” a genuine smile makes the man’s eyes gleam with excitement, “what a marvel. I’ve read... probably every review there is to read, and still nothing quite prepared me for _that._ Gandalf is a genius. Everybody involved is, come to think of it. Your students... your son, I mean, how old is he, sixteen?”

“Seventeen,” Thranduil corrects him.

“I can scarcely believe it. What a talent.”

“Thank you. You’re familiar with him? Gandalf, I mean? First name basis, is it?”

“Familiar?” Bard laughs, “I had to sit through _years_ of his Advanced Theatre History classes, much like you did, I imagine!”

“Wait, you...” Thranduil’s glass stops halfway to his mouth, “we went to the same school...?”

“Your class were already securing senior year contracts left and right by the time I started, but yes. I was in Directing and Creative Writing, though, not Acting. I was born in this city, you know,” he adds that last sentence seemingly as an afterthought, but they both know it really means to remind Thranduil of the last time they spoke. And he accused the new Cultural Director of _not caring about the scene..._

“I see,” he mumbles into his champagne, and Bard measures him steadily, like he expects another snide remark to follow - for his part, Thranduil reserves those for the times they are _truly_ needed, but then the man doesn’t need to know that, does he.

“You know, I’ll happily reminisce about our school years with you for the rest of the evening, _if_ you let me talk about Laketown some more.”

“Ah, _of course_ there is a catch. Dream on, Director.”

...Yes, like these times. Thranduil wants, and tries _very hard,_ to find something irritating enough about the man to warrant walking away for him, but he’s vastly unsuccessful. Which troubles him. Which requires...

“Oh, alright then. At least point me in the way of that champagne.”

...More alcohol, yes.

When it comes down to it, there are quite literally a dozen other people he could _or_ should be talking to right now, but somehow, he ends up spending the rest of the intermission by Bard Bowman’s side, and he discovers with some horror that he doesn’t mind in the slightest.

Their conversation fortunately doesn’t veer towards Laketown again, but that doesn’t mean it stagnates, far from it in fact. 

_In fact,_ Thranduil wastes his entire repertoire of sarcastic comments and precise jabs on the man that night, and somehow, infuriatingly, they seem to have no effect on him whatsoever, which doesn’t happen often, or at all, for that matter. The only other person who has recently demonstrated such a knack for evading and parrying his wit is Dis, and he won’t go so far as to compare Director Bowman to her, but...

He retreats to the solitude of his box feeling inexplicably like he’s just been insulted, even though Bard and him talked about nothing more damning than costume choices before the third bell rang, and watches idly as the auditorium fills with people, the balconies of the boxes surrounding him as well... Sees Bard again, on the far side of the wall in a box of his own. He looks a bit out of place, flanked by people he doesn’t know, but he settles into his seat with a pleased little smile, smoothing down the front of that suit of his...

Notices Thranduil quite plainly staring, and before he can do anything about _that,_ Bard raises one hand in a tentative acknowledgment.

Thranduil sighs, narrowing his eyes at him, but before the lights dim, he reciprocates the greeting, hoping there’s nobody nearby daring enough to take a picture of _that._

And alright, that’s quite enough _amusement_ for one night, he decides when the music swells, and Bard’s face disappears from him in the descending darkness. But the truth of it is, no matter how much he’d like to deny or ignore it - and it’s all Bowman’s fault, anyway, damn him - he remains _intrigued,_ intrigued and perhaps the teensiest bit captivated by this strange dedicated man in a now marginally better fitting suit, and oh, that just doesn’t bode well for _anybody._


	2. Chapter 2

“Jesus, Dad, come _on._ ”

If any one of the countless interviewers he’s had to suffer over the years dared ask him _where it all went wrong,_ Thranduil suspects he could not find a suitable answer. Might have been seconds, minutes after the steady beeping of the heart rate monitor his wife had laid connected to for ages at that point, turned into one prolonged, shrill sound, pitched perfectly to worm itself into his head and drown out everything else... Might have been weeks, months, years after that, the bedtime stories he _didn’t_ read, blaming a lack of time, the recitals and parent-teacher meetings he _didn’t_ attend, the bruises he _didn’t_ blow on to make better...

All he knows now is that at some point, the ground between him and his son started cracking, then breaking open, and then the chasm became so great it appeared unbridgeable.

“All I’m saying is, it might be wise of you to think of the future,” he sighs, opting for the calmest tone of voice he’s capable of, “and by that I mean further ahead than a year or two. That money will be capable of helping you for _years_ to come, if you only find a way to invest it well-”

“And I’m telling you, I don’t care about _investing_ ,” Legolas rolls his eyes, barely peeling his eyes away from his phone, “if it means my money will just lie around in a bank for ages. What use is hoarding it if I can’t do anything _good_ with it? The plan stays the same - I turn eighteen, I use a portion of it to rent my own place, find a good cause for the rest. Maybe I’ll follow in your footsteps after all, you know? Teach theatre to underprivileged kids or something.”

Thranduil offers a curt smile, but his Earl Grey tastes sour on his tongue. He’s long since learned reprimanding his son _or_ arguing with him never leads anywhere but more misery for both of them, but that doesn’t mean he knows what suitable reaction to replace it with. At some point when he wasn’t looking, Legolas grew up from a red-cheeked child with perpetually scabby knees into a young man on the precipice of adulthood, brimming with grand ideas and plans and wishes, most of which include Thranduil as the one constant he means to _get away from,_ or don’t include him at all.

Allowing him to be cast in _Midsummer_ repaired several small cracks between them, once the arguments about nepotism died down that is, but it’s not enough - frankly, he’s beginning to wonder if anything ever will be. Over the course of just the past three months, Legolas has matured so much, and Thranduil was glad when he found his worries about putting him through weeks after six-show weeks largely unfounded, but now that the production has finished, his drive clearly hasn’t gone anywhere.

The idea of him turning eighteen in a couple of months and _actually_ packing his bags and moving out is something he’s been voicing for a while now, and even though Thranduil would never go so far as to deny him the opportunity, or, god forbid, _ask him to stay,_ the thought remains... unfathomable.

“I’ll drive you to school?” he offers, trying very hard _not_ to make it sound like he’s also offering up his entire heart alongside it, and Legolas only shakes his head, already picking up his things, already halfway out the room, already halfway gone for good.

“No thanks,” he waves his hand dismissively, “we don’t start until third period today. I’m meeting Aragorn for that thing.”

“What _thing?_ ”

“See you later!” is the only response he receives for his trouble, echoing from the hallway as Legolas hurries out, and Thranduil is left alone with the remnants of their breakfast. Even that, getting up at the same time and sharing ten minutes in the kitchen, is more of a coincidence these days.

Without really thinking about it, Thranduil brings up the student schedules on his phone, checking idly that Legolas wasn’t lying about having the morning off, and realizes only _after_ he does it that that’s probably exactly one of those things all of those therapists that have tried to suffer him over the years might scold him for. Oh well. Couldn’t exactly call himself _a model patient_ in any conceivable sense of the term.

No, the last truly good decision he made was probably deciding to direct his full attention to Mirkwood all those years back - _officially_ because it needed every ounce of it if it was ever to take off, but also because another one of his son’s nannies had just quit on him, and on their video call, it was evident that Legolas had been crying, and Thranduil _might_ have been attending this or that very important awards ceremony, but everything else suddenly seemed absolutely inconsequential.

 _What can the recent lull in your career be attributed to?_ the media have asked him time and time again, like it hasn’t been going on for years, like he hasn’t made it _perfectly clear_ in the past that some personal lines of his are not to be crossed, and sometimes, frivolously, he wishes he were able to just shove the two pictures off the desk in his study into their collective faces and tell them to shut up.

He’s smiling in one of them, and so is Elle, and so is the tiny bundle in her arms - even though the picture can’t, doesn’t show _that,_ Thranduil remembers it to this day. In the other one, Legolas is a couple years younger than today, and he is smiling also, a cheek-splitting grin, hair flying in every which direction from underneath his cap, sunburned, eyes gleaming in a stark contrast with the screaming orange of his safety vest. _That,_ Thranduil can recall with perfect clarity as well, the scent of the sea and the wind tickling their faces with brine, the feeling of finally escaping all of his numerous responsibilities for at least that one day, and focusing on what was really important - not his career, not award ceremonies and public appearances, not the Oscar on his mantelpiece or the wasted promises of many others waved in his face every now and then.

 _My family,_ he wants to tell everyone, but has long since given up on trying to convince the press to change their perception of him - too much effort with too little payoff. For all they know, he’s just another lazy starlet, living off his royalties and nowhere near scandalous enough to warrant attention anymore, and for his part, Thranduil is more than happy to leave them to it, if it means _they_ in turn leave him and his alone.

Later on, he will think that perhaps he should have devoted at least some of the time he spent melodramatically pitying himself, to _actually_ paying attention to what was beginning to happen in his very close vicinity, but the foresight for _that_ escapes him right now, and will continue to escape him for quite a bit longer.

* * *

It is a truth universally acknowledged in his line of business that it’s one thing, funding working out on paper, and a whole another thing, actually securing it. Bard has _some_ idea of what he needs to make happen if Laketown is to come back to life, but it’s far from the only thing on his agenda, the responsibilities his new role requires of him growing seemingly by the hour. 

Some of them are thrust upon him simply because his predecessor didn’t have a solid vision for, well, anything, and some of them he creates himself - he’s there at every new art exhibition, every gallery opening and quite a hefty number of concerts and gigs, be it classical music or garage rock, and it starts bearing fruit, slowly, painstakingly, but steadily. 

_Networking_ is such a vague concept, and it means different things in different parts of the country - right here, back in his birthplace, he is yet again affirmed in his belief that _hands on work_ is the best approach, and his expanding list of contacts is finally starting to show it. He’s barely been here a month, and already people usually know of his name, often of his _arrival,_ before he even steps foot in this or that establishment, and _things_ are beginning to happen.

Ered Luin is a city of, if anything, numerous opportunities, for anyone and everyone with a voice, an instrument, or any sort of talent, really. It is a city of buskers (not banned for the foreseeable future, if Bard is to have any say in the matter), of block parties and tiny music clubs hosting young DJs and improv and slam poetry contests in their courtyards, of string quartets and ballet dancers performing in the streets, and of course, of theatre.

“Director Bowman, I did wonder if I might run into you here.”

The welcoming smile is automatic at this point, but it grows even wider when he recognizes the woman approaching him far too well - which is, in and of itself, funny, because they haven’t been introduced up until this point, no matter the fact that Tilda and her son Kili are in the same class.

“Mrs Oakenshield, a pleasure. At long last.”

“I’ll say,” she grins, “nice to finally meet you.”

“Likewise,” he says, shaking her hand profusely, until he feels a tug on his sleeve. “Oh, Tilda, this is Kili’s Mom... Although you two have probably met, haven’t you.”

Sigrid and Bain take turns picking Tilda up when Bard is unable, a nuisance he tries to keep down to a minimum, but it’s still enough to have missed out on meeting _most of_ the other parents up until this point, including Dis.

“I’ve seen you about,” Dis offers a wink, but doesn’t force Tilda to reciprocate, or even to reply, which Bard appreciates more than the woman will ever know. “Kili says a lot of nice things about you, too. He’s around here somewhere.”

“Oh, so you’re here as a visitor, too?” Bard inclines his head, “not running the whole thing?”

“Not even a little bit,” she laughs, “believe it or not, I like to let _other people_ handle things, every now and then.”

“Teach me your ways,” Bard huffs, then turns to Tilda still trying her very best to regain his attention, “yes, honey? Oh, alright, let’s go over there now. Sorry, I’ll-”

“No no, I’ll join you,” Dis smiles, “I should make an actual effort to find my children, as well. Fili will be performing soon.”

 _This_ particular testament to the sheer life force of Ered Luin’s creative spirit is happening quite virtually in the backyard of yet another staple of its theatre lineup, even older than Erebor, even larger than the sparkling new Bree Community. Rivendell is an institution to be respected, full of household names and big important plays, and Bard hasn’t quite gotten over his initial astonishment at the fact that it also happens, on a fairly regular basis no less, to allow various school art clubs the use of its equipment _and_ its wonderful outdoor stage, stone walls and rose bushes and all. It’s quite the event, and Bard thinks he would have taken his children with even if he _hadn’t_ received a very surprising, and very welcome, invite.

Elrond Peredhel was the first person to shake his hand when he arrived, apologizing profusely for not being able to come up with an earlier date for their proposed meeting, _and_ offering his support at the same time, and Bard has been starstruck ever since. 

Sigrid has already found herself a small group of almost-friends, and disappeared alongside them the second they stepped foot in here, and Bain has been keeping his classmates company before _their_ big performance later today. Tilda sticks to him like glue, of course, but even she recognizes a handful of friendly faces, and if Dis Oakenshield weren’t by his side to defend him, knowledge of their ways _and_ a very dry sense of humor her weapons of choice, Bard would have been whisked off by a gaggle of mothers from Bain and Tilda’s school to _tell them everything, and do try these brownies,_ no doubt.

All in all, it really does feel like the city is wasting no time to make him feel welcome, and who is he to question his luck?

“Has it been everything you hoped for?” he ventures to ask Dis, both of them sipping on their respective colorful lemonades, overseeing their youngest exploring the jungle gym nearby. “ _Midsummer,_ I mean. What’s it like, now that it’s finished?”

To his mild surprise - and intrigue, he can’t lie - she sighs heavily before answering him.

“Loaded question,” she smiles somewhat bitterly, “objectively put, it definitely left Erebor in a much better state than it was before. Financially, PR wise...”

“But?”

“But... the challenges never end, it feels like. I won’t bore you with the minute details. The personal drama, you might read about in a tabloid or two at some point. But you’ve been here for some time now, surely you know about the book. And if you _didn’t_ know, well, I’d much prefer you _didn’t_ hear the twisted version of it through the grapevine, anyway.”

“I’ve heard... some things, yes,” Bard admits, “difficult to believe Azog is still alive enough to walk around, much less write a, a self-righteous manifesto.”

“Oh, that’s right, I forget you were born and raised in this city,” she laughs, some relief to it no doubt, “yes, unfortunately he’s still around. Sometimes I feel like he’ll outlive us all at this rate.”

“Hopefully not,” Bard says, waving at his daughter, who has evidently decided that hanging upside down from colorful metal railings of varying heights is how she wants to spend the rest of her afternoon.

“Here’s hoping,” Dis nods, “anyway, this shouldn’t affect... work on your end, or anything. But if you read about me strangling people in courtrooms, think nothing of it. Maybe just make sure Erebor doesn’t go to Thranduil Greenleaf when they lock me up, please.”

“Oh... huh,” Bard squints at her, “I’ll see what I can do.”

“ _That_ reaction tells me you two have met already.”

“On... several _memorable_ occasions, yes,” Bard admits, “in Erebor, too, actually, not long before _Midsummer_ finished.”

“You don’t say,” she regards him with even more interest, “and? Has he cursed your entire bloodline yet?”

“Well, he did insult my choice of suits. I think.”

“Sounds like him,” she snickers, “in a roundabout sort of way. He’s... well. A handful. Don’t take anything he says personally, if you value your sanity.”

“I’ll keep that in mind. Especially since it looks like I might still end up needing his help.”

“Oh?” Dis seems, for her part, genuinely interested in hearing what Bard has to say about that, but the crowd begins shuffling and moving, signalling the impending start of yet another performance, and they must inevitably go along with it.

“Well, he _is_ filthy rich,” Bard shrugs, clutching the returning Tilda’s hand tight, while Dis dusts off Kili, laughing cheerfully. “And it doesn’t look like the city will be too keen on chipping in on _all_ of my outlandish ideas.”

“So the rumors are true,” she seems genuinely amused, and they make their way to secure themselves some passable seats for the next show, “you do have a death wish. I thought sponsoring _Midsummer_ would have been the end of his altruism, honestly. If you manage to uncover a way of making him part with even _more_ of his money, do let me know.”

“That bad?”

“You might have an easier time begging for coins on a street corner, believe me.”

“You know,” Bard sighs, “it’s funny you should say that.”

The plan isn’t so much a plan, as it is another one of those _outlandish_ ideas he’s going to have to convince a lot of people to believe in, but as he sits side by side with his children in front of that beautiful stage that afternoon, and watches a highly inspired, _hilarious_ rendition of _Dracula_ by thirteen-year-olds, Bard is, against all odds, beginning to feel a bit better about his chances.

They didn’t particularly welcome his approach in London, with his ideas about _the community coming together,_ and _bringing art to the people by any means necessary,_ but here, in Ered Luin, where people are willing to meet on a random Saturday afternoon to watch their children perform, and bring baked goods and homemade ice-cream, and blankets to sit on in the grass, and instruments to play on just because, he thinks he just might stand get lucky.

He’s going to face a lot of obstacles, the vast majority of them much worse than Thranduil Greenleaf, he suspects, but he’s going to face them anyway, and prevail - his life’s work depends on it.

* * *

He thinks nothing of it when the invitations first start arriving. He hasn’t attended _any_ council meetings in literal years, quite happy with the immunity to various politicking that the _private_ status of his school grants him, and he doesn’t plan on starting now. Granted, he is almost sure he would enjoy listening to Director Bowman annoying the everliving hell out of every single ancient bloated city councilman in existence, but he has many other, better things to do with his time.

He _continues_ thinking nothing of it when Bard, or rather Bard’s assistant, contacts _his own_ assistant a couple of times, the requests for a meeting not too urgent _or_ tempting, and therefore good enough to be ignored.

He _certainly_ thinks nothing of it when the name _Laketown_ appears in an official document or two that he receives - or rather, attempts to think nothing of it, but makes a couple of small mental notes to inquire about it later, with people he knows will hold at least _some_ answers.

...He thinks nothing of it when he hears the knock on his door that day, but then his son bursts into his office on a perfectly normal afternoon, and he actually looks _happy,_ thrilled even, to be seeing Thranduil in the middle of the day, and perhaps _that’s_ when he should have known that something is wrong.

“Legolas?” he inclines his head, “hello... How can I help you?”

“I’ve got it, Dad,” Legolas is all but _beaming,_ sitting down across from Thranduil without any prompting whatsoever, “I’ve found it.”

“You’ve found... what, exactly?”

“I know where I want to put my money now,” his son announces proudly, “or, at least a part of it.”

“Oh?” Thranduil quirks an eyebrow, “and where is that?”

“Did you know they’re trying to bring back Laketown?”

His stomach performs a nasty somersault that leaves a bitter taste on his tongue, and against his better judgment, Thranduil groans and pinches the bridge of his nose. Oh, he should have seen _this_ coming.

“Legolas...”

“No no, hear me out, _please._ ”

It’s the _please_ that stops him from shutting his boy down immediately - it sounds eager, and happy, and _excited,_ and that shouldn’t by any means terrify him, but there he is. He only motions with his hand for him to go on, and already, such exhaustion is setting down on his shoulders that that one small gesture feels like lifting mountains.

“Well, alright,” Legolas appears unsure for a moment, as if being allowed to _actually_ say his part comes as a surprise to him, but he quickly regains his footing, launching into a truly passionate tirade: “So, you know how we did that thing with Aragorn and the rest, right? Took us all over town? We were at Bree Community yesterday, and it was awesome! So many kids came and watched us. But the point is, Director Bowman was there. You know him, right? And he was really impressed with us, and talked to us afterwards, and told us about Laketown, like, he just mentioned it, but then I told him about Grandpa, and he was suddenly _really_ interested. And he said, well, they’re trying to come up with the money for it, but it’s tough going, so they’re thinking of doing a sort of fundraiser event, at some point before Christmas, to sort of garner interest and get people excited about it...”

He might talk for minutes, hours more, but the distant hum in Thranduil’s ears, like the sea in waves, grows into a deafening roar when the word _Grandpa_ is uttered, and he doesn’t hear much more beyond that. He thinks of his father’s eyes, and his smile, and of the very last time he saw him, and inevitably, he also thinks of the fire, its scorching heat on his cheeks and arms and lungs, and _none_ of those are things he particularly _wants to_ think of on what was shaping up to be a perfectly normal Tuesday afternoon.

“...And yeah, I said I’d try to chip in as well. And we talked about it in class, and I’m not the only one. I even thought we could do a bit of a thing ourselves, help with advertising it here, maybe even come up with a skit of our own for when it actually happens... What do you think?”

Thranduil remembers to focus on the present moment - Legolas is staring at him, cautiously excited still, and he looks years younger, and far more open than Thranduil remembers him ever being lately, and he hates it.

“Out of the question,” he says slowly, coolly, and it’s as if the words aren’t even his own, it’s like he’s listening to someone else saying them, and Legolas’ reaction, his face falling, that he could have predicted far too well, with sinister accuracy, and yet did nothing to avoid it.

“Dad,” Legolas opts for an emotionless tone as well, “if you’d just hear me out-”

“No,” Thranduil retorts, “this is not happening. I know it might seem tempting, but-”

“Tempting?” Legolas scoffs, “someone’s _finally_ trying to actually do something right around here. The guy _knows_ what he’s doing, believe me. If you just talked to him-”

“Oh, but I _have_ talked to him,” Thranduil laughs colorlessly, “he’s been marching all over town, causing all manner of chaos. Impossible to miss.”  
“What’s the matter, then?” Legolas all but throws his hands up in the air, “this could actually be _good!_ Just think about it! The Long Lake is just sitting there. People walk their dogs on the island, and that’s about it. All those beautiful old buildings in ruins. If he succeeds, all of that could be rebuilt from the ground up! Just think of what Grandpa would say, he would _love_ that someone’s trying to bring it back-”

“You do _not,_ ” Thranduil can feel the anger rising in his throat like a dull ache, “talk about your Grandfather, not like you _know_ what he might or might not _like._ ”

“Why?” Legolas glares, “just because _you_ refuse to talk about what happened, even after all these years, doesn’t mean I have to forget he ever even existed-”

“Enough!” Thranduil does lose some of his cool then, and he already knows the image of his son’s face flinching will stay with him for good. But there’s no stopping now. “While you are under _my_ roof, _and_ underage I might add, I get at least _some_ say in where your money goes, do not forget that. Get it out of your head _immediately_ that it, or _you,_ will be allowed anywhere near Laketown. I don’t want to hear about this again, are we understood?”

For his part, Legolas looks like he might argue, or yell, or accuse Thranduil of a whole slew of things, but then he just... doesn’t, and the warning bells chiming somewhere on the back of Thranduil’s mind are nowhere near as loud as they perhaps should be.

Legolas glowers at first, like he can scarcely believe Thranduil, but then his face settles on an impenetrable look of ice cold marble, a family trait, and Thranduil wouldn’t go so far as to describe the light in his eyes fading, but still, he can _hear_ another thread connecting the two of them snapping, another long crack appearing in the fraught ground separating them.

“Oh yeah,” Legolas says so icily Thranduil is almost frightened into backpedalling immediately, but then his son gets up from his seat, and regards him with an open disdain unlike _anything_ he’s used to, and it’s more than enough to render him incapable of moving, of saying anything more. “Understood. Sorry for disturbing you. Later.” 

And with that, before Thranduil can so much as say another word, Legolas turns on his heel and disappears just as quickly as he came, the door slamming close behind him louder than a thunderclap to his ears.

Once again, it becomes impossible to discern the passage of time after that - Thranduil sits motionless in his chair, staring ahead, and when he finally gets up to pour himself a glass of something stiff from his little cabinet, minutes might have passed, or hours, or decades.

The grief is like a lead weight on his shoulders, and that is _the last thing_ he needs right now, so he quickly deals with it, does what he does best - soon enough, it is replaced by yet more anger, directed away from Legolas, away from himself, and towards a much more likely perpetrator.

“Erica!” he snaps, and his poor assistant all but jumps out of her chair outside his office, “I want to see Bard Bowman, _right now._ ”

“Oh, uh... of course, sir. Shall I schedule a meeting with his office?”

“Oh no,” Thranduil says sweetly, but she’s been with him long enough to recognize the malice hidden behind it, “I want you to find out where he is, right at this very moment, by any means necessary, and then I want you drive me there. Mister Bowman and I need to have some words.”

_This just got personal._

* * *

It’s like looking at one of those art projects where someone transposes bright new colorful photographs over ancient black and white ones, to show the passage of time in the simplest, clearest way possible. He can still see the island as it used to be when he was a kid, lush green grass and neatly trimmed hedges and trees, benches lining clean walkways... And then there is the image of it _now._

The gentle, but relentless coming of autumn has colored the leaves of the oaks and chestnuts in bright hues of yellows and oranges, a pop of color in the otherwise desolate, unkempt wasteland that the island has turned into. No one has trimmed the hedges _or_ the trees in years and years - the ones that survived the fire, or decided to grow there afterwards, anyway. The evidence of _that_ is everywhere, when one knows where to look - there is the fountain, away from the main roads, that used to be surrounded by much more greenery than it is now, its stone embellishments still stained almost pitch black with soot, even today. There are the patches of ground where no grass will ever grow again, the linings of what once must have been lovely rows of flowerbeds still visible. And then, of course, there are the buildings.

A bustling restaurant once thrived on the island, the main two-story building large enough to host dozens upon dozens, its other, smaller wing and backyard often cleared out and transformed into a dance floor and a space for big bands to perform on warm summer evenings... Always a welcome reprieve from the heat, massive, ancient trees used to provide shade back there, for families and young couples and struggling students to hide under, but the fire consumed almost all of them, nothing left behind but wide, flat stumps, where the city was forced to fell them for fear of falling down on their own.

It is standing there and looking at that, the cobblestones of that lovely courtyard cracked ages ago by the scorching heat of a fire that came seemingly out of nowhere, the graffiti painting the walls of the never-repaired old building never quite succeeding at covering the jagged brushstrokes that the flames left behind, that he feels, perhaps for the first time since he came back to Ered Luin, a bit angry, and a bit helpless.

All of his inquiries into _why_ nobody has thought to invest in repairing this piece of history in all those years, have met with vague responses at best so far, something about _never enough time, never enough money,_ but it wasn’t until he finally met with Mayor Fry that Bard finally understood what’s been taking so damn long.

The man came into power, eerily enough, almost immediately after Laketown burned, and has been keeping his seat, in one way or another, for some twenty-odd years now - which is neither good nor natural, but if Bard is to ever make his plan a reality, he can’t go accusing random people in positions of power of hypocrisy, corruption _or_ a simple case of _being rotten to the core_ just yet.

No, his luck might lay in the fact that the Mayor _isn’t_ interested in the arts for now, funnelling money elsewhere instead - Bard has gone toe to toe with his fair share of politicians over the years, and the best course of action is always to wait, listen, and talk to everybody that _isn’t_ the Mayor, because _other people_ usually already tend to have some idea about how to eventually get rid of him. They only need the right nudge.

But _that_ will come _after_ he manages to restore Laketown, of course. The newest batch of notes regarding that, he types furiously into his phone - how very professional of him, not even bringing his assistant with him on this little trip - and so he doesn’t even notice someone’s approaching him until it’s almost too late.

“Director Bowman! A word.”

Bard almost trips over an unidentified pile of rubble, and looks up to see Thranduil Greenleaf, of all people, approaching him, looking a bit out of place here, wearing yet another one of his array of quietly pompous suits, not to mention that truly stormy expression.

“Mister Greenleaf...? To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Oh, _pleasure_ will not be a part of this in any way, believe me,” Thranduil sneers, and Bard would laugh if it weren’t for the sheer incapacitating _intensity_ of the man’s glare. “Do you mind explaining to me how and _why_ my son has gotten it in his head to _chip in_ on your little carnival ride?! I knew your ideas were unorthodox, but _this?_ Begging _children_ for money?! What did you tell him?”

“Oh,” Bard sighs, not without a smile, “I believe I told him _thank you,_ and _please go ask your father._ There was no _begging_ involved, I assure you. If anything, I was pleasantly surprised at just how interested he was in supporting it. He really is very bright-”

“I don’t need _you_ to tell me that,” Thranduil retorts, “still, it’s out of the question. I thought I’d made it perfectly clear that I didn’t want anything to do with Laketown.”

“That you did,” Bard frowns at him, “remind me why that is, again?”

“Oh, we are definitely _not_ doing this right now,” Thranduil growls, “I don’t have to explain myself to you.”

“Quite the contrary, actually,” Bard decides, perhaps foolishly, to go for the offensive, albeit a careful one for now - he hardly has anything to lose where this man is concerned, after all. “I’ve been all over the city at this point, and everyone _but_ you seems rather enthusiastic about the possibility of Laketown coming back. Granted, some think I’m insane, but that comes with the territory... But none of them have been this visibly _offended_ by the idea. Even the bloody Mayor wished me good luck, _after_ laughing me out of his office, that is. What is it with you and this island?”

On some level, he’s succeeded, because Thranduil regards him mutely for a moment, something in his face shifting even though he probably doesn’t want it to, some long-forgotten emotion. But then even that disappears behind that impenetrable facade of his, and he strikes back.

“I don’t see how that’s any of your business. I didn’t want to be involved at all, it’s true, but thanks to your incessant _meddling,_ my son has now picked up on the idea that Laketown is the best thing to happen to this city in decades-”

“Which it very well might be...” Bard allows himself a teasing jab, and Thranduil barks a harsh laugh before continuing.

“Right! And what’s more, he’s not alone in the sentiment. I don’t want _any_ of my students getting involved in something I haven’t sanctioned, and I would thank you not to try and influence them otherwise!”

“You know what, I’m beginning to see your son’s point,” Bard sighs, thinking back to meeting the young Legolas and his young _Midsummer_ co-stars at Bree the other day - how thrilled they were when they learned about the mere _possibility_ of a Laketown-shaped future, how they immediately started coming up with ideas to support it among themselves, how they actually _thanked_ Bard before leaving, and promised to stay in touch...

“Excuse me?” Thranduil is glaring daggers, but Bard must admit the image loses some of its intimidating quality with the backdrop of the wind blowing a few colorful dried leaves their way, and picking up a stray strand or two of the man’s golden hair. Right. _Focusing_ might be a good idea.

“I did tell him to ask you, you know,” Bard explains, “and I don’t think I’ve ever seen anybody’s face fall that fast. _Might be better off leaving him out of this altogether,_ he said, and we laughed it off, and I told him _surely, if you just ask him nicely._ But I’m beginning to think maybe I should have listened, what do you say?”

To this, the man doesn’t have a suitable answer, which surprises Bard a bit, but also confirms his suspicion - the relationship with his son must be a sore spot for Thranduil, and Bard would feel more sorry for him, if he weren’t currently preoccupied with finally getting properly angry himself.

“The bottom line is this,” he takes one step closer, just one, but somehow it’s enough to close the distance between them to an almost uncomfortable, an almost dangerous, degree, “what I said when we first met still stands - Laketown _is_ happening, with or without you, and clearly even your students realize that. It is exactly what this city needs, _when_ it needs it, and I’ll be damned before I let anyone take it away. I’m just surprised that _you_ of all people are so vehemently against it - I’ve looked at what you’ve achieved with Mirkwood, how hard you’ve been working all these years to _make_ something of it. Your fingerprints are _all over_ this city, and I just can’t understand it - you _should_ want what’s best for it all, the theatres, your academy, your _son._ And yet...”

Goodness, but they really _are_ standing frightfully close. For his part, Thranduil looks utterly _furious_ with him, his trademark piercing glare perfectly designed and sharpened to unravel a lesser man, but Bard _knows_ he’s getting through, he _must be_ \- because if he’s not, he might as well be digging his own grave, the difference _is_ subtle and difficult to spot.

“Look,” he sighs, relenting, stepping back a bit, figuratively and otherwise, “the way I see it, this is a chance for you, for me, for all of us, to _do something_ for this city. Will it be easy? Hell no. Will it bear fruit? Frankly, I think so, but I might be colossally wrong, it happens every now and then. But I know _the potential_ is there, and _that’s_ what I’m chasing. _That’s_ what excites me so much. I would absolutely love for you and your students to be a part of it, but I’ll just as easily make it happen without you, and that’s me being _completely_ honest with you. And maybe you should be honest with _yourself,_ and ask yourself if you _really_ want to sit this one out, and why. Because Laketown will be here in the summer, and it will be here for many more summers to come, if I have anything to say about it. So? What’ll it be?”

* * *

“What’ll it be?”

Thranduil isn’t rendered speechless often, but it happens to him now, even though he _wants to_ argue, _wants to_ protest and defend himself - somehow, he finds he can’t.

When he first learned where he needed to go to confront Director Bowman, he almost decided against it again - this is the first time he’s stepped foot on the island in literal _decades,_ and he would have been perfectly happy to keep the streak going, but he’s quickly learning that things rarely go as planned where this man is involved.

He _almost_ faltered, almost stopped, turned around and left several times, walking the length of the island, assaulted with memories and bitter reality in equal doses, but his fury spurred him on, only to be faced with... that.

What gives that horrible, daring, irreverent man the idea that he can talk to Thranduil like he _knows_ him, he cannot say, but his words hit home even though he doesn’t mean for them to. _You should want what’s best for it all..._ He’d laugh at Bard, if there were any laughter left in him whatsoever. 

To his horror, Thranduil realizes, swiftly, all at once, that the man is right, and oh, he hates it so much whenever anyone else but him does that. 

Can’t exactly go confessing it out loud either, so he only glares, glares intensely enough to set the entire island on fire again, and hopes it might be enough to deter Bard, but it doesn’t seem to affect him in the least. In fact, he continues to more than hold his own, and the _passion_ with which he defends his choices, the determination, the strong belief that is, at the same time, in no way blind... Thranduil can’t recall when’s the last time he himself felt that, about anything, and the thought horrifies him.

He exhales, an indignant sigh, and turns away from Bard, turns his back to him, and looks instead to the sky and the treetops, or what’s left of them. He remembers the lights in the branches, endless girlands of them like fireflies, that and _all_ the beautiful old street lamps shining, not just a select few that the city decided to send power to, all of it making the island come alive, making it shine so bright that the glow of it could be seen from almost any spot in the city high enough to look towards the lake...

He remembers to this day, too vividly, when that glow turned a more sinister shade of orange, and he remembers running towards it, as fast as his feet would carry him, but that is not something he will be sharing with Bard, or anyone else for that matter, any time soon, either.

“I’m telling you,” the man is clearly _not_ done pestering him, “if this succeeds- _when_ this succeeds, everyone will benefit from it. Everyone. Just imagine all the new material, the possibilities-”

“Alright, alright, that’s _enough,_ ” Thranduil groans, spinning around to face him, raising one hand firmly, “I can’t bear you trying to sell it to me all over again. I will help you.”

 _That_ change in the man’s face, the shock, is almost worth the decision, he thinks.

“You... hah, you will?” he huffs a surprised laugh, “why?”

Thranduil thinks of Legolas getting up and walking away from him, what seems like moments ago, thinks, inevitably, of all the other times that happened... Thinks of how many more times he’s allowed to let him walk away, before he doesn’t come back.

"Oh, mostly to shut you up," he offers, instead of the truth, and Bard laughs genuinely now, his eyes gleaming.

“You do realize you agreeing to this actually means _the exact opposite_ of that.”

“And you’re about to find out it works both ways,” Thranduil retorts lightly, “I still have _a lot_ of questions, and you can bet all the money you _haven’t_ raised yet that I will make you answer all of them, if we are to ever get anywhere.”

“Fine by me,” the man has the audacity to _shrug,_ “so do I. First of all, what on earth does your _help_ actually entail? How much are we talking? What amount of support can I leverage you for until you decide to sue me, or something?”

Thranduil stares, but all his anger, all his irritation... it’s all floating away from him, like autumn leaves carried away from the island on the lake’s lazy currents - like this one spur of the moment decision was all he needed for some tiny, but by no means insignificant part of him to snap back into place. He only laughs, and the curiosity, the intrigue and the cautious excitement Bard Bowman regards him with... he finds that he feels it, too.

“You’re making me regret this already,” he accuses him still, and then there’s more laughter, and then, somehow, at some point, it’s the two of them walking down the length of the island, arguing about _fiscally responsible decisions,_ and when the best time for their first _actual_ meeting that _doesn’t_ involve ambushing each other in public might be, and he feels... He discovers he feels, if anything, different.

He’d avoided even glancing the Long Lake’s way for years and years, he’d refused to talk about his father, or the fire, or the terror and the guilt, for ages, but just like the water lapping at the island’s shore keeps altering its shape ever so slowly, so it would appear that he, too, has been heading towards some sort of change this entire time. He can’t say right now if it is wanted or simply necessary, but he _can_ feel it coming, smell it on that gentle breeze that picks up as they leave the island behind them, see it in that glint in the eyes of the man walking by his side... 

And he is, if anything, an opportunist - he’s going to seize this one before it passes him by, and he’s going to see where it takes him, and if he gets _really_ lucky, he might even start relearning how to enjoy himself, somewhere along the way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, here we are, chapter two! Might as well have titled it Mood Whiplash. I always knew that I wanted to really explore Thranduil's relationship with Legolas, I just hope the change of pace wasn't too jarring. Fitting in Dis was a no-brainer, she's going to offer a subtle third perspective A LOT in this story, I think. As for fitting in _all_ the children, well, let's just say we'll come back to Bard's family in the next chapter. Either way, I'm having way too much fun writing these two, their dynamic comes frightfully naturally to me, and I hope you guys are enjoying the ride as well! <3


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mentions of deceased spouses, as well as pregnancy, in this one.

“Are you telling me you _don’t know?_ ”

“I’m telling you it’s... under consideration! It’s going to be fine!”

“You’re insane. Not to mention reckless, and irresponsible.”

“Yes, yes, we’ve established that before,” Bard sighs, taking off his glasses in a small gesture of defeat, pinching the bridge of his nose and closing his eyes against the incessant, piercing glow of the screen he’s been staring for what feels like hours now. “Are you going to help me or not?”

“May I remind you, _you’re_ the one who decided to make this fundraiser happen in two months,” Thranduil measures him calmly, and not without an undercurrent of amusement, “ _two months,_ Director. One would think that ensuring it can actually happen _where and when_ you want it to happen, would be number one on your agenda.”

“Oh, it is,” Bard groans, “there’s no other reason I’d suffer through talking about it with _you,_ otherwise.”

“Charming,” Thranduil sniggers, leaning back in his stupid luxurious chair, and simply staring - which, if their previous meetings, the official ones that is, are anything to go by, is proving quite the effective strategy for making Bard talk through whatever issue he’s currently bogged down with.

“It’s going to be fine,” he repeats, mostly to reassure himself, “the guy in charge of the Christmas market is a good acquaintance at this point, and he doesn’t really _mind_ the thing happening in a different location this time around, it’s just the logistics of it... Contacting all those sellers, moving all those stalls, not to mention all the extra power required to make everything shine, and run, and work...”

“Which is what you need _my_ help with,” Thranduil spurs him on with one idle motion of his hand, and at any other point in time, Bard might take offense at being interrogated like a kid in front of a classroom, but somehow, this exact strategy has proven itself to be extremely helpful.

“Precisely. I can’t really go altering electrical blueprints city-wide, they already weren’t very happy with me when I put in the request for extra power for the island, and that was _before_ the Christmas market was involved. _Your guy_ at Mirkwood should technically be able to pull it off, right?”

“Technically,” Thranduil shrugs, “or you could always leave it until next year.”

Bard only laughs, and when he glances up from his paperwork, Thranduil _might be_ looking out of the window at nothing in particular, but the smile is meant for Bard anyway. It’s become a sort of catchphrase of theirs, in the short time that they’ve been working together - _why not leave it until next year? Everyone’s going to ask you that,_ Thranduil had told him, _you had better have a proper response at the ready._ It quickly evolved from a teasing jab meant to irritate him, into an almost gentle reminder, a way to check in - _are you still sure you want to do this?_

And Bard is, there’s no doubt in his mind whatsoever. It might be an insane tempo that he’s set for himself, true, but things really do seem to be falling into place - if he succeeds at moving the annual pre-Christmas market, a crowd favorite, to the island, it will bring with it hundreds upon hundreds of people who might not even be interested in the arts, and by extension Laketown itself, otherwise.

They probably _could_ still make the festival happen come summer _without_ trying to raise money for it this early on, but Bard isn’t in the habit of doing things by halves - if he wants it to happen this quickly, in less than a year, he’s going to need funds the city simply will not grant him. The equation really is very straightforward.

“Oh, and another thing you’re very possibly going to hate me for,” he adds, halfway through packing up his things, having more or less successfully hammered out today’s pile of issues, “Elrond Peredhel finally responded.”

“Contrary to popular belief, I am not averse to working with the man, you know.”

“I do know,” Bard smirks, “but then what would you say if I told you Peredhel wants Thorin Oakenshield for the role, and I’m going to need _you_ to contact him for me?”

Thranduil opens his mouth to offer some no doubt scathing retort meant to scorch his unsuspecting nemesis wherever he currently is, half a city away, but then he refrains from it, only sighing heavily.

“I’d say you’re _really_ pushing the limits of this arrangement,” he grumbles, “but you’re also lucky I’m meeting with _Dis_ Oakenshield tomorrow. I’ll mention it to her, going to Thorin directly might cause some... friction.”

“You don’t say,” Bard quirks one eyebrow - the rivalry between Greenleaf and Oakenshield is somewhat of a stuff of legend in Ered Luin, and he can only hope he’ll end up in the same room with both of them at some point, to witness it firsthand. Might actually happen sooner than he thinks, if things continue going according to plan.

“Thank you,” he says earnestly when Thranduil won’t elaborate on _that_ , and then he’s hurrying away from the man’s quietly fancy office, and a bit more overtly fancy Academy, and into his car to muscle his way through afternoon rush hour to pick up his children from school. His surprisingly good mood stays with him, and it would be only half lunacy to admit that his newest work acquaintance is to blame.

Thranduil is hardly doing this purely out of the goodness of his heart, Bard realizes as much - he’s agreed to commit quite a hefty amount of Mirkwood’s resources to helping Laketown along, and he expects his fair share of the eventual spoils - but he never would have guessed the man would actually prove himself to be in any way _easy_ to work with.

Oh, he has his moments, about a dozen for every meeting they take, when his propensity for nitpicking Bard’s _every single decision,_ and questioning every single step along the way, threatens to force Bard to lunge across the table and strangle him with his bare hands, but somehow... For some very odd reason, it’s exactly what he needs.

He needs to be challenged on his opinions, needs to be reminded to double-check everything, needs to be pushed to argue his beliefs... Apparently even needs, every now and then, to be called _reckless_ , or _irresponsible,_ or _bullheaded,_ sometimes all at once, to take a step back, and reevaluate.

As things stand right now, he can only make some very uneducated guesses at Thranduil’s motivations behind agreeing to help him, but there’s no two ways about it, he’s glad it happened.

The message is waiting for him when he finally manages to steal a parking space close to Tilda and Bain’s school, and he reads it in a hurry, but still almost manages to miss a crosswalk and get mowed down by a truck, he’s grinning so much while also typing his quick reply.

**From: T. Greenleaf**

_14:17_

Spoke to Peredhel. _Richard III?_ Please tell me Thorin Oakenshield will be forced to wear a hunchback prosthesis.

**To: T. Greenleaf**

_14:18_

Actually, I think they wanna go modern. Something about flip flops and tighty-whities.

**From: T. Greenleaf**

_14:18_

Delightful. This I have to see.

And come to think of it, Bard muses, waiting for the crowd of children pouring out of the school to reveal Bain and Tilda, Thranduil’s numerous professional qualities might not have all that much to do with it - maybe, for the longest damn time, he’s really just needed to laugh again.

* * *

For some inexplicable reason, Thranduil is still smiling long after Director Bowman has left his office, and the feeling of accomplishment lasts him for a while yet after that. The amount of work the man has cut out for him if he means to succeed in any conceivable way is _immense,_ but now that Thranduil has agreed to be a part of it, it’s finally beginning to take shape, of course.

The truth is, he was becoming a bit bored, a bit too comfortable, in his position as Principal - juggling various responsibilities has always come naturally to him, but he would be the first to admit endless paperwork and endless parent-teacher meetings, not to mention the teaching, and the scheduling, and the evaluation-writing, has started to feel a bit repetitive. He adores Mirkwood with his entire heart, and its success will always be first and foremost on his mind, but now, he has something to take his mind off things, and _have fun_ with, as silly as admitting that feels.

And besides, he’s not the only one, which is what this entire decision was supposed to be about, anyway.

His students have always been an incredibly creative bunch, and the second they heard that their Principal wanted Mirkwood to take part in the preparations for Laketown after all, _boards_ and _committees_ and _focus groups_ started forming left and right, to Thranduil’s great delight. Performing arts are only a part of what these kids are capable of, and he knows there are many talented graphic designers and editors and, and budding PR managers among them, and he means to utilize them all. Director Bowman has fortunately agreed - was not given a choice, more like - to let them perform... _something,_ the details of which are yet to be determined, as well as help out with parts of the preparations, and they’re going about it with enviable vigor.

“Principal Greenleaf, sir! Over here!”

They’re already waiting for him when he finally makes his way downstairs, away from his office and into the foyer of the Thespians’ Building, where they are to hold today’s meeting, and Thranduil greets them all warmly, even though the distinct lack of his son among them tugs at the edges of his concentration.

“Legolas is running late,” Tauriel, one of his son’s closest friends and last summer’s breakout hit as Hermia in Erebor’s _Midsummer,_ dispels his worries somewhat, “but other than that, we have good news.”

“The best news, actually,” Arwen sidles up to them, nudging her young boyfriend sitting next to her, “tell him, come on.”

“Well,” Aragorn rakes his hand through his hair, “it looks like we’re gonna do that improv skit, after all. We got a bunch of other people interested, and everyone really liked what we did at Bree the other day...”

“Oh,” Thranduil nods, “not _Romeo and Juliet,_ then?”

“Nah, no time,” Aragorn shakes his head, “we actually thought we might save that until the summer. Get more time to, you know, actually _do something_ with it that way. Find someone to, I don’t know, _direct us._ Legolas had some ideas about that, but he’d have to _be here,_ first...”

“It’s alright,” Thranduil waves it off, recognizing far too well the looks all of them exchange among one another - teenagers _talk._ “I’ll speak to him later. I think improv is a wonderful idea, within the timeframe we’ve got. Engaging for a wider audience, as well. I’ll try and think about some choices for directors for you, too.”

“ _You_ could always do it, sir,” Tauriel prods him in a gentle, yet definitive way, and Thranduil laughs to mask his sudden jolt of... not irritation, more like a tug of long-forgotten uncertainty.

“Right,” he huffs, “hardly an erudite choice. No no, I’ll find someone who actually _knows_ their craft. Ask around among your fellow students as well. I know, I know, they’re _theoreticians, eugh,_ but at least one or two of them are actually normal, I promise you.”

The Production Division is a relatively new addition to Mirkwood’s roster, catering to those who are interested in creating theatre in all ways _except_ acting - future playwrights, screenwriters and directors alike seem to spend all their afternoons bogged down in books where other students perform and practice, sing and dance and act, and thus the members of that program, few as they are right now, are considered to be the sinfully boring ones among their schoolmates, when nothing could be further from the truth.

“If you say so,” Tauriel rolls her eyes, then focuses on whatever’s going on behind Thranduil. “Oh, finally! There you are!”

“Hiya,” Legolas appears out of nowhere, plopping down on the nearest empty chair, and if he means to acknowledge Thranduil’s presence at any point, he doesn’t show it. “Sorry I’m late. What’d I miss?”

“We settled on improv,” Aragorn says, while Tauriel shoots Legolas a _look_ that’s largely unreadable to Thranduil, not privy to any of their secrets or prior conversations.

“Okay, yeah, that’s good,” Legolas nods, searching for something on his phone, barely affording Thranduil a glance, “should be fun.”

“You should also consider adding in that bit you did at the beginning of the year,” Thranduil offers, “very _Hamilton_ -esque.”

“Now that was _definitely_ fun,” Tauriel agrees, but Legolas doesn’t appear happy in the least - come to think of it, he hasn’t looked happy in a while.

Perhaps a bit foolishly, Thranduil had hoped that deciding to involve Mirkwood in the preparations for Laketown after all, might have at least _some_ positive effect on the tension between them, but now it seems too small a patch for what apparently remains a nasty wound. Laketown might be an exciting prospect on paper, it might have all those desired effects of rejuvenating Ered Luin’s culture, Director Bowman might be _sinfully_ hilarious to annoy, but at the end of the day, Thranduil only agreed to do it because of Legolas. _For_ him.

But it’s not exactly like he can go admitting that out loud, lest he make even more of a fool of himself.

As it is, the rare moments they do manage to spend together, the distance between them shows no signs of shrinking, now filled with a suffocating silence Thranduil doesn’t know how to break. It’s the same on their drive back home that day, a rare occurrence in and of itself, which Thranduil feels like he’s squandering quite epically by spending too much time _thinking_ of what to say, instead of actually saying it.

“Oh, uh... Dad?” Legolas pipes up right before their usual parting of the ways the second they step foot inside the house, _not_ dashing up the stairs to hide in his room, but rather hovering at the foot of them. “Can I ask you something?”

“Of course, anything,” Thranduil is quick, perhaps _too quick,_ to reply - he’s like a drowning man grasping for straws at this point, for crying out loud.

“Well, there’s, uh... Tauriel’s mom is leaving town again, for two weeks this time, and she didn’t actually _ask_ , but I know she hates staying home alone. She did sort of... invite me to stay with her whenever I wanted, and I thought... She lives so much closer to school. I might stay over a couple of nights. If that’s okay with you.”

Thranduil opens his mouth to respond, cutting words of refusal already forming themselves on his tongue, but then he refrains from it altogether - stops himself, and reevaluates. He mustn’t be too harsh, that’s the only thing he knows for certain.

“Don’t you want to invite her to stay here, instead?” he offers what’s in his opinion a reasonable alternative, “you two left unattended with an entire apartment to yourselves...? I don’t know.”

“She _is_ eighteen, you know,” Legolas snorts, “and it’s not like- I can cook!”

“Yes,” Thranduil smirks, remembering vividly the number of frying pans ruined forever by Legolas’ attempts at _cooking,_ “I know.”

“Besides, I thought it might be good practice. For, you know. When I end up moving out.”

 _That_ cuts deeper and deeper every time Thranduil hears it, but he puts on a good show of not letting it get to him, he thinks. He sighs, taking a tentative step closer to Legolas, then falters.

“I have to ask this - are you two...?”

“ _Jesus,_ Dad,” Legolas almost laughs, “disgusting. We grew up together, remember? She’s like the annoying sister I never had.”

“ _That_ doesn’t fill me with a whole lot of confidence regarding your living situation either.”

“Bu-ut...?” Legolas gently spurs him on, in that teasingly mischievous way that always used to work on Thranduil, and that, too, turns the very air in his lungs into needles.

“But,” he sighs heavily, “I suppose I can’t really begrudge you the opportunity. _If_ you end up breaking something, I don’t want to know, you hear me?”

“Absolutely,” Legolas grins, already turning away from him again, “everything will be billed to the Academy. Thanks!”

“Hang on, _when_ is this happening?” Thranduil calls after him.

“I’ll let you know!”

“Right,” he exhales, suddenly very alone in the hall of their very large, very empty house, which is apparently about to become even emptier.

All things considered, that could have gone much worse, he could have yelled, Legolas could have sworn never to talk to him again... yes. Better to tell himself that, than to try and think of the actual implications of this. No matter what he tries, no matter what words he chooses or _doesn’t_ choose, he’s losing Legolas - perhaps not at the speed of light, but steadily, inevitably. Like trying to catch smoke, he’s slipping away, and before long, the hollow, empty feeling that echoes in his ribcage, in his very heart, will be there to stay, for good.

...Right. Might as well get himself a drink and hope with all his might that this, too, will pass.

* * *

November arrives at Ered Luin with almost daily showers in tow, sometimes quick and over before they started, sometimes lasting for hours, and wind, always the wind. In her own words, Sigrid finds the endless scraping of the branches of the old oak at the window in her room _charming in a spooky, gothic-castle sort of way,_ but even she agrees the original plan to wait until spring to trim them will have to be expedited somewhat, when one particularly sharp morning storm results in a handful of cracked window panes.

They make a day of it, Bard taking them out for lunch as a reward for suffering through the hardware store with him, and then they can be seen cheering him on as he climbs the precariously balanced stepladder, using a powerful branch lopper at an angle that threatens to send him flying for a painful meeting with the muddy ground at any given moment.

Fortunately, he survives, and the oak is trimmed successfully, hopefully not too much and not too little, and they just about manage to start a small bonfire from the cut branches in the recently cleaned out fire pit and toast some marshmallows, when rain arrives again. They ignore it for a while, because Bard has always been a firm believer in both sturdy raincoats and not coddling his children too much when it comes to foul weather, and they are too excited about the bonfire, but eventually, even Tilda, who usually _adores_ rain in any and all forms, starts sniffling, and they quickly move back inside.

Bard gets the fire going in the fireplace this time, while Sigrid makes them all hot cocoa and Bain goes about preparing dinner, and before long, they’re all warm and cozy and together, while the weather rages outside.

Laketown might be his professional goal here, in this city that’s slowly becoming his own again, but the true reason he made the move is right here, in his living room - his children are happy here, _can be_ happy here, and that’s really all that matters. 

Tilda is one of only fifteen children in her classroom, a luxury no money can buy, and Bard knew he’d succeeded at finding a good fit for her the second her teacher assured him that just because she preferred _not_ to talk in class or to other children most of the time, didn’t mean she wouldn’t fit in, _they all have their own place in the group that no one else can fill, and our job is to help her find hers._

Bain’s results have skyrocketed in just these past two months, and when he isn’t staying over at this or that friend’s house - Bard can’t recall that _ever_ happening before - he can be found in his room, even studying of his own volition, which is a case so rare his father still thinks he’s dreamt it.

Sigrid smiles more, and really _talks_ about the friends she’s made, and helps around the house as usual even when Bard explicitly tells her to take some time to herself, and if he walks in on her actually _writing,_ after years of seemingly not being able to, he says nothing about it, and keeps the feeling of almost overwhelming joy and satisfaction to himself, lest he embarrass her.

 _All in all,_ he tells the picture of his wife smiling at him from the mantelpiece, _we’re doing okay, I promise._

But of course, _okay_ is a general term that, inevitably, involves many day to day occurrences that simply cannot be avoided in a family of three kids and one _just slightly_ overworked father - after getting soaked on that lovely stormy Saturday, Tilda’s sniffle never leaves her, and evolves into a full-blown cough and fever come Sunday afternoon, and by the time he’s putting her to bed a couple hours too early, Bard knows he won’t be getting much work done tomorrow.

He doesn’t sleep very well that night, on account of Tilda wandering dazedly into his bedroom several times to complain of either thirst, or ghosts, or a dizzy combination of both, and their rushed breakfast on Monday is spent cancelling things left and right, while also making sure Bain and Sigrid are perfectly fine, _and_ make it to their respective schools just fine _and_ in time without Bard driving them.

Tilda’s temperature doesn’t run that high, and so Bard decides to stick to a tried and true combination of gallons of tea with lemon, and some cough syrup, and most of his morning is spent either making Tilda drink, reading to her, or attempting to sneak around the house as quietly as possible when she finally dozes off for five minutes... So it’s no wonder _one_ of his numerous supposed-to-be cancelled meetings slips his mind.

“Director Bowman,” Thranduil actually sounds almost glad to hear him, which makes Bard feel even guiltier, “is traffic really so bad in the city this time of day?”

“Not so much. You’ll have to forgive me, but I can’t make it today,” Bard sighs heavily, “my youngest is very sick, and I’ve had to keep her home from school. I’ve just had _so many_ things to cancel today, I absolutely forgot to notify you in time, and I’m sorry. Unless you want to suffer my homemade cookies, we’re going to have to reschedule.”

“Oh,” Thranduil says simply, “I see. You do realize we need to get that grant proposal filled and posted _today._ ”

“Crap,” Bard utters.

“Yes. I _could_ leave it up to my assistant to fill in all the important details, but it will still need your signature.”

“Crap,” Bard elaborates.

“I agree,” Thranduil chuckles, “I suppose you couldn’t swing by? Send your people perhaps, to pick it up?”

“Well, my daughter is currently sleeping quite firmly, but she _is_ seven, you know. I don’t want to scar her prematurely by disappearing on her. So no, I’m afraid I can’t. And my office is stretched thin today as it is... I really _am_ sorry,” Bard grumbles, rubbing his forehead, remembering too late that he _was_ baking before he thought to pick up the phone, and thus ending up with a heaping of cookie dough on his face.

“Yes, I can imagine,” Thranduil sounds, for his part, almost compassionate, “the day they finally let us sign these things electronically will be the day I retire. I’ll figure something out. I’ll call you in a bit.”

“Well, hold on, hang on,” Bard babbles, “figure _what_ out? We need that proposal. I should be the one to figure it out, I suppose I _could_ call Sigrid to come home from school a bit earlier...”

“Nonsense,” he can _see_ Thranduil scoffing, “leave it up to me.”

And with that, he hangs up, and Bard is left staring at his gently flour-dusted phone, somewhat dumbfounded. Eventually, trusting the man to call when - _if_ \- he does indeed end up coming up with a solution, and deciding to call him back if - _when_ \- that doesn’t happen within the next thirty minutes, he returns to his chores, the kitchen soon filling with the sweet smell of almond cookies, Tilda’s favorite.

A little more than twenty minutes later - he knows because one tray is already out of the oven and the other one just about to finish - the doorbell rings, and he frowns in its general direction. He isn’t expecting any packages, and surely the neighbors’ puppy cannot be lost _again..._ Come to think of it, it’s probably one of Thranduil’s lackeys, sent with the papers to fetch Bard’s signature, which is an oddly amusing idea...

But nowhere near as bizarre as answering the door and finding Thranduil Greenleaf himself just standing there, extremely out of place, staring like this is an everyday occurrence for them.

“Oh,” Bard manages, suddenly very aware that he’s wearing an ancient _Kiss the Chef_ apron, “hello...?”

“Afternoon,” Thranduil only glances at it and fortunately decides not to comment, aside from a politely amused: “There really _are_ homemade cookies.”

“Well, yes,” Bard laughs awkwardly, smoothing down the front of his flour-covered monstrosity like it’s his best suit, “so they are. You really didn’t have to come all this way, that’s very-” _unusual, unprecedented, odd, kind of charming_ “-kind of you. I... actually, I wasn’t aware you even knew where I lived.”

“Yes, well,” Thranduil actually appears a bit bashful, like he’d hoped that little tidbit of additional information might have slipped Bard’s attention, “I’ve had my assistant find out, when all other options proved completely pointless. This was a last resort, I assure you. I don’t plan on abusing the knowledge in the future.”

“Well, as long as there’s that,” Bard chuckles, and when Thranduil looks a bit uncomfortable still, he decides to take pity on him. “Well, we’re not going to get anything signed out here. Won’t you come in?”

“Thank you,” Thranduil nods, then adds, as if he didn’t invite _himself_ to Bard’s, “just for a couple of minutes, I really must return to work, not to mention the proposal needs posting.”

“Right, of course,” Bard steers them into the living room, his eye inevitably falling on every single little cluster of mess that he _definitely_ could have cleaned up beforehand. “Why don’t you let me wash up and put the kettle on. Earl Grey, right?”

Thranduil stops subtly admiring - and probably judging - the interior to look at him for a moment, almost surprised.

“Yes, that’s right. How’s your daughter?”

“Oh, you know,” Bard offers conversationally, taking that blasted apron off as quickly as possible, trying to tidy up at least five different corners of the kitchen at once in that age-old _people are visiting_ bout of slight panic, “she’s been sleeping for the past hour or so, at long last. Hopefully nothing too serious, but they _are_ child germs and you are forbidden from complaining if you develop a runny nose.”

“I won’t sue you too harshly,” Thranduil says perfectly seriously, and when Bard laughs and shoots him a glance over his shoulder, he appears almost comfortable, sitting on his sofa, meticulously covering his end table with paperwork - the sight tugs at... something, buried deep inside that hollow place around Bard’s heart, but he firmly decides to leave dissecting _that_ for later.

“Oh!” he remembers, “I received a letter from the Mayor himself, earlier today. He wants to meet one more time.”

“Interesting,” Thranduil muses, “any idea why?”

“Probably wants to try and _reason_ with me again,” Bard sighs, taking the piping hot tray of cookies out of the oven and simultaneously switching off the screaming kettle in one smooth sequence of practiced moves, honed to perfection only by those who are used to maneuvering around at least two other people in the kitchen at all times. “It doesn’t bode well for him, people actually taking an interest in the arts again, you know.”

“God forbid,” Thranduil smirks, “and? Are you going to go see him?”

“I suppose I must,” Bard shrugs, pouring two mismatched cups of tea, “I’m going to have to learn to go around him, before I can go through him.”

“Is that your plan?” Thranduil quirks an eyebrow, “to go _through_ him, eventually? I didn’t take you for a politically charged man, Director.”  
“Oh, I have no intention of entering politics in any other capacity than my current one, I assure you,” Bard rolls his eyes, finally sitting down as well, in the old armchair that survived their move from London, across from Thranduil, “ but anybody with eyes can see that the man is a menace to public life in any and all of its variations. He’s a dinosaur.”

“You’ll get no argument from me,” Thranduil says, accepting his cuppa _without_ commenting on the duo of cartoon kittens on it, thank god “but do let me know when you’re about to go under, so I can cut my losses in time.”

“Lovely,” Bard rolls his eyes, “let’s get down to business, shall we.”

He doesn’t watch for it, so he can’t really say how it happens - it might be that immediately after he signs what he needs to sign, they are already launching into a heated discussion about all the _other_ paperwork that will need posting, which somehow evolves into a good-natured argument about the benefits of _actual_ paper versus digitizing everything. It might very well be _the second_ cup of tea Bard ends up making them, or the cookies disappearing at a much more alarming rate than he would have ever expected from either of them.

It might, come to think of it, be the call he needs to take, which has him wandering out of the room as is his habit, only to return two minutes later to find his youngest sitting on the couch next to Thranduil, staring at him somewhat suspiciously - either way, Bard realizes in a split second before he hurries to intercept Tilda, it has somehow come to be that Thranduil has stayed decidedly longer than the couple of minutes needed to sign one piece of paper, and as with all the other things Bard never expected to happen to him these days, he can only watch, and see where it takes him.

“Tilda, baby, what are you doing out of bed? How are you feeling?” he heaves his daughter up into his arms, ruddy cheeks and pyjamas and all, and she appears almost dismissive.

“Fine, Da,” she huffs, “thirsty. Wanna cookie.”

“No problem,” Bard shoots Thranduil an investigative glance, but the man looks completely unperturbed, which is a bit of a relief. “Did you drink all your tea?”

“Yep. I came to find you. But Mister Hair was here, so I talked to him.”

“Oh, well, that’s very nice of you,” Bard says, deciding to firmly ignore Thranduil’s reaction to _that_ new nickname, “this is Mister Greenleaf, actually, we work together.”

“Very nice to meet you,” Thranduil says very solemnly, and Tilda still won’t stop staring, with that particular intense curiosity only seven-year-olds are capable of wielding.

“Nice to meet you too, Mister Hair,” she nods, “do you like my Dad’s cookies?”

“Yes, they’re delicious,” Thranduil replies seriously, “I would let you call me by my name, but Mister Hair _is_ so much easier to pronounce.”

Bard responds to his smirk with a surprised huff of laughter he can’t quite control - the man doesn’t appear the least bit offended, or even annoyed, simply looking on, calm and amused in that quiet way of his, as Bard steers around the kitchen once again with Tilda on his hip. She comments on every single one of his tasks, as she usually does, but that doesn’t mean Bard isn’t a bit shocked - as a rule, she _is_ much more talkative at home, but certainly never in the presence of strangers.

“Alright, time to go back to bed, angel,” he spurs her on, setting her down, and she dutifully hurries towards her room, bowl full of cookies in her hands, but remembers to stop in the doorway, turning around with a very sincere: “Good night, Mister Hair.”

“And good night to you too,” Thranduil smiles, raising one hand in an approximation of waving at her, and she grins, satisfied, running off.

Bard, whose confused heart is suddenly swelling in his chest at that display, shoots one apologetic look towards Thranduil, stating: “I’ll be right back.”

“Take your time,” the man nods, gesturing with his phone, “I’ve got a call of my own to make.”

Tilda goes back to sleep easily enough, a testament to the real toll the sickness has been taking on her, and when Bard returns to the living room, it’s to find Thranduil sipping on his tea and staring into space somewhat idly, clearly lost in thought.

“Out like a light,” he announces, and Thranduil looks to him as if he’s seeing him for the first time, but then it fades, and he offers one of his trademark lopsided half smiles.

“Good. _Mister Hair,_ is it?”

“Yeah, well,” Bard chuckles, reassuming his spot in his comfortable armchair, “what can I say. She seems to like you.”

“I’m flattered.”

“Make of it what you will,” Bard snickers, and Thranduil smiles to himself, before reassuming his work on his laptop now resting on his knees - he lets Bard watch him, that much he knows, but he does it anyway, and thinks, _well, I definitely didn’t see_ this _coming. When exactly did we cross that invisible line beyond which I don’t really mind that you significantly overstayed your welcome, and have been sitting on my couch, drinking my tea and eating my cookies for what feels like hours now?_

“Your son,” he mumbles, “he’s an only child, right?”

And ah, there it is, that piece of himself that Thranduil still guards so fiercely, but can’t really disguise completely, not to the eyes of another parent.

“Yes,” he replies, tangibly more stiffly now, “not by choice, but... well.”

 _That_ part, Bard recognizes far too well, too, not as a parent, but as a fellow widower.

“Yeah, I know what you mean. We actually wanted to stop at three, but... Ah well. Certainly more than enough for one guy, now.”

Thranduil does look up from his work then, to measure Bard with clear, but polite, interest. It occurs to him that this is perhaps not really a, what, fourth workdate type of conversation, but things rarely tend to go as planned whenever the two of them start really talking.

“I’ve been raising just one, for the past sixteen years,” Thranduil says quietly, hoarsely, as if the words don’t come in any way easy to him, “and I still believe I’m failing epically, most of the time. How you do it with three, I can’t imagine.”

“Oh, you know,” Bard smiles, “I believe they call it compartmentalizing. I just call it buying in bulk, and owning a really big fridge.”

“Right,” Thranduil chuckles.

“And I’d hardly say you’re failing,” Bard adds, “from what I’ve seen of Legolas, he’s... well, exceptional. Talented, clever, _very_ driven. He must get it from _somewhere._ ”

“That would be Elle,” Thranduil’s smile has a very sad edge to it now, even though he might not even realize it. “My wife. She was... exceptional, as you say.”

“I can imagine,” Bard decides to forgo any and all of his survival instincts again, and prod: “If she decided to stand the likes of you. _However,_ ” he hurries to add, to quell Thranduil’s huffed protests, “if you really _have_ been raising Legolas on your own this entire time, then it’s not _all_ her. Sixteen years, my god. Does that mean she...?”

“Legolas was barely a year old,” Thranduil offers swiftly, coolly, without a single hint of emotion - a practiced reply.

“Ah,” Bard sighs - there’s a painful tug at his heart, but ultimately, it feels almost surreal, that this man, of all people, would _know._ That he went through very much the same suffering Bard did, and they only so happen to be talking about it now, in his living room, when their meeting should have been concluded ages ago. Still, he doesn’t question the urge to keep going.

“Jules died in childbirth,” he confesses, that sentence practiced a thousand times over, too, at this point, but it still feels different, especially under Thranduil’s scrutinizing gaze, his eyes widening almost imperceptibly when Bard says it. “Yeah. It wasn’t... The pregnancy was already difficult. So I... Well, I know.”

They’re looking at each other wordlessly now, but Bard can feel it, and he can say with some confidence that Thranduil can, too - something between them is shifting, changing. This is not something casual work acquaintances usually share within the first couple of weeks of knowing each other, but then again, this sort of experience scars people in very similar ways, so when Bard says he knows, it means he actually _knows._

The gist of it, anyway. The grief like a lead weight on one’s shoulders, always pressing down, sometimes light enough to be carried around all day before it overwhelms you, sometimes so heavy it pushes all air out of your lungs when you least expect it. The determination to keep going that you simply must adopt at one point or another, because there are other people depending on you. The memories and the photographs creating an image of the person you lost in your mind’s eye, sometimes as clear as if they were still standing next to you, sometimes fading at the edges so quickly that you end up terrified you’ll forget what they looked like for good.

He _knows,_ and knowing now that Thranduil went, is still going through, very much the same, shatters one barrier between them that afternoon, irrevocably.

But of course that moment doesn’t last long, nor should it, before it gets the chance to become truly uncomfortable - it’s interrupted by keys jangling in the front door, and the house is truly full again before Bard or Thranduil can so much as blink.

“Dad!” Bain hollers from the hall, “you need to hear this, you gotta see what Miss Jackson wrote in my Maths test-”

“Hush, both of you,” Bard hurries to them before they can start stomping up the stairs _or_ around the kitchen, “Tilda’s sleeping. _And_ we have company.”

“Ooh, who is it?” Bain tries to take a peek into the living room over Bard’s shoulder, while Sigrid only rolls her eyes, proclaiming: “Got it. I’ll be in my room.”

“No, I believe it’s time I got out of your hair,” Thranduil is suddenly standing by Bard’s side, all packed up, “I’ve more than overstayed my welcome.”

Sigrid’s mouth forms a perfect ‘o’ as she sizes him up and down, and Bain scowls for a bit before recognition kicks in, and he visibly has to fight the urge to point at Thranduil while also repeatedly slapping his sister’s shoulder.

“Right, uh,” Bard sighs, “kids, say hello to Mister Greenleaf. This is my eldest, Sigrid, and my son Bain.”

“A pleasure to meet you both,” Thranduil nods, and a receives a chorus of suddenly bashful responses to that same effect for his troubles.

“...Alright guys,” Bard groans to cut short the awkward silence that follows, “there’s fresh cookies in the kitchen, but leave some for Tilda, I’m begging you. I’ll be right back. You don’t actually need to leave right now.”

That last sentence is meant for Thranduil, _after_ Bain and Sigrid race to the kitchen, and the man only smiles at him, already draping his coat over his shoulders.

“I believe I do. Still got that proposal to post, remember?”

“Ah, crap, of course. Is there enough time...?”

“There is, don’t worry,” Thranduil reassures him, “thank you for having me. And for the cookies.”

“You’re welcome for the cookies,” Bard laughs, opening the front door for him, “but I have to thank _you_ for coming here. You saved me a lot of trouble.”

“Ah, it was on my way,” Thranduil waves it off.

“On your way _where?_ ” Bard snickers, perfectly aware that they are now both standing in the doorway, letting the draft in, but somehow neither of them feels like moving on.

“This place is actually quite close to the Academy, you know,” Thranduil attempts a smooth save, and Bard graciously decides to let him.

“Really? Doesn’t feel that way in morning traffic. Anyway...”

“Yes, uh... I’ll post the proposal right away, let you know how it went.”

“Thank you. Really, I appreciate it.”

“Of course. And I hope your daughter feels better soon.”

“Oh. Yeah, I’m sure she will. Thank you.”

They’re hovering, both of them, and a singular silly thought worms its way into Bard’s head, _maybe you should ask him to stay for dinner,_ but it’s so ridiculous he dismisses it almost immediately. For his part, Thranduil looks lost in thought again, like he wants to say something himself but can’t quite find the words, and so Bard must, of course, save them both from this.

“It was good of you to stop by,” he says firmly, “have a good afternoon.”

“Hmm? Right. Of course. Thank you, you too. See you soon.”

“Right,” Bard grins.

“Right,” Thranduil smiles, somewhat unsteadily, “goodbye then.”

“Bye now.”

It might take the man twenty seconds or an hour to finally walk the short distance across the yard and get into his car, but Bard watches him do it anyway, only raising his hand in a fleeting wave _after_ the impossibly luxurious Mercedes starts with a low purr, which is a bit stupid, because there’s no way Thranduil can see that now... Alright. Time to get back inside, and maybe stop thinking about this strangely nice meeting in terms of firsts, and/or revelations.

 _That_ resolution isn’t in any way helped by Bain and Sigrid waiting for him in the kitchen, mouths full of cookies, and _staring_ like he’s supposed to _explain himself,_ or whatnot.

“Dad,” Sigrid asks him very seriously, “was that _the actual_ Thranduil Greenleaf drinking tea in our living room?”

“I believe so,” Bard smirks.

“The guy with the Oscar?” Bain demands, shoving his phone in Bard’s face, Thranduil glaring back at him from this or that red carpet event, another incredibly fancy suit and all, and Bard can’t help the laughter.

“The very same,” he nods, “he’s been a great help around Laketown lately.”

“Ri-ight,” Bain squints, still not completely satisfied with that answer, it would seem.

“That one of the perks of your new job you mentioned?” Sigrid teases, and when Bain sniggers, Bard demonstrates his most utilized skillset these days, which is shooing his children away with a handful of precisely aimed swats of a dishcloth, and soon the kitchen is full of laughter again, full of _them._

 _We really are doing alright,_ he sees it fit to reassure the picture of Jules one more time, the one stuck on the fridge with a pineapple magnet this time - like she’d need it. Like she didn’t have absolute faith in him that he would, in fact, take care of their family, even though he would have to do it with a chunk of his heart missing, and a phantom pain in his chest for the rest of his life.

_Good things are coming our way, I can feel it._

* * *

He sits in his car entirely too long after he guides it into the garage, completely reluctant to get out and go back into his house - so much colder, so much emptier, now that he’s experienced what an actual _family home_ can look like.

Director Bowman doesn’t live, as Thranduil secretly suspected, in one of those new buildings at the edge of the city, masquerading as _fresh_ and _modern_ while they really just follow one prefabricated blueprint, and a strong wind could probably knock them down... No, he owns a house in a quiet neighborhood close to the river - _a lucky find,_ Thranduil thinks he remembers him saying at one point - and he couldn’t really say what it is about it, but from the moment he steps foot past the somewhat crooked wooden fence, it just breathes... not only familiarity, but _warmth._

Let it be said that Thranduil might have lied a bit, there at the beginning - it was obvious to him that he would have to knock on Bard’s door the second he heard about his predicament, but the ease with which he simply jumped into his car and _drove over,_ that he’s going to keep to himself for the foreseeable future. He could cite any number of reasons, boredom, irritation at the rather crucial meeting being cancelled, even restlessness... but no matter which ones end up being true when he inevitably returns to this visit in his mind many more times after it is concluded, right now, he simply accepts the invitation for some _homemade cookies,_ and decides to think about the consequences later.

He can’t rightly say what the trajectory is, of the path from signing one singular document, to sniping at each other again in good spirits about this or that, to meeting the Director’s youngest in a very odd sequence of events that has him simply looking up from his computer one second and discovering a whole entire child on the couch next to him... To glancing at his watch and realizing well over an hour has passed since he came here, and it felt like five minutes.

He _also_ can’t really say how or why he ends up talking about Legolas _or_ Elle with this man, but before he knows it, he learns about Bard’s grief in turn, and something within him inhales anew, soars and settles at the same time.

It is a relief he doesn’t think he can quite communicate, learning that someone knows, to some extent at least, what it’s like, but ultimately... Ultimately, the one thing he can’t stop thinking about, navigating his car back home through slowly building traffic, is not that part of the conversation, or the parts that preceded it, or the parts that followed.

It’s the comfort of Bard’s clearly ancient couch that he keeps returning to - that, and the mismatched mugs they drank their tea from; and the colorful quilts draped seemingly over every chair and armrest. The pictures on the fridge, cheerful and bright, clashing with the amalgam of fruit-themed magnets, and the framed photographs on the mantelpiece, above an _actual_ working fireplace. The plants in the windows, and the rainbow-colored carpet, and the toys and books and candles covering every available surface... The _heart_ of it all.

It makes him long for something he’s never quite managed to recreate in his own house, certainly not in the years he spent away at dozens of events every month, at shoots and press screenings and award ceremonies... Not in the years since he came back to stay.

There are pictures at his place, yes, and many many books, even a plant or two, but Thranduil has the faint suspicion that if he were to pack it all up and move away tomorrow, he wouldn’t miss the house at all. Legolas certainly looks like he won’t miss it, whenever he does eventually move away, and the thought should make Thranduil angry, but what he feels that evening, sitting alone by the dim glow of one solitary lamp, one room out of half a dozen more than enough for him _and_ his glass of red, is very far from that.

He doesn’t know where Legolas even is - far be it from him to hound him with endless messages, he rarely gets an answer anyway - and before long, he might not come home at all, but... Thranduil has wasted years upon years of their life together keeping his distance, giving Legolas his space, forcing himself time and time again to believe that saying nothing was far safer than saying the wrong thing and ruining everything... Years upon years of not doing enough, and convincing himself otherwise.

His phone pinging with an incoming message is the first sound to interrupt his solitary silence in quite a while, and he ponders not even checking it, but then again, it might actually be his son.

**From: Bard Bowman**

_19:23_

My daughter is feeling better and asks me to convey to ‘Mr Hair’ that he’s welcome back anytime. Really just a ruse for her to draw a picture of you, I’m afraid. Just thought I should warn you.

Thranduil stares at the words dumbly for a moment, before bursting into quiet laughter, and spending entirely too long crafting a reply - fortunately there’s no one there with him to witness _that_ embarrassment.

**To: Bard Bowman**

_19:25_

Tell Tilda thank you, and that my agent will get in touch with hers. Pictures of me do sell very well, you know, even today.

**From: Bard Bowman**

_19:26_

How gracious of you. Not sure I’ll allow it to be posted anywhere else but our fridge, but thank you.

Thranduil’s smile is threatening to split his cheeks, and he quickly downs the rest of his glass, before the sudden sense of fondness unfurling in some remote and long-unused part of him overpowers him.

Bard makes it look so easy - they moved here, what, three, four months ago or something, and already, his old new house is a home, and his family are happy, and it’s as if he’s always been here, and for his part, Thranduil wants... Well, what he _wants_ might still be a great big enigma to him, but he feels inexplicably like he’s come a bit closer to finding out today.

He types out a quick reply to Bard, trying and failing _not_ to imagine him laughing in that cozy kitchen of his, but it’s the message he sends after that, that finally brings a true smile to his face, and maybe even a sliver of peace to his heart.

**To: Legolas**

_19:30_

Hope you’re having fun today. For both our sakes, I also hope you’ll come back home in time before I manage to burn it all down - I’m going to try baking again.

**From: Legolas**

_19:35_

Dad wtf. Are you high?

**To: Legolas**

_19:36_

Not high. Yet. Can’t vouch for what I’ll put in these brownies though, if you don’t come help me.

  
And if all it takes is Legolas actually coming home at a reasonable hour that night, or discovering a good half the tray of brownies missing in the morning, _or_ being allowed to drive his son to school after they finish off the second half, to finally get them _going,_ then Thranduil will take it, by god will he take it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My goodness. You might have seen me griping over on Tumblr how this is turning out to be much longer, much more detailed than I'd originally planned, BUT WHO AM I KIDDING, I'm having way too much fun. Could you tell how excited I was to come back to the text message format from LII? Because I was ELATED. On the other hand, I never could have envisioned them having the serious bit of conversation they did, back when I was planning out this chapter, but here we are. Hopefully Mr Hair and Bard's lovely apron were enough to balance it all out. The romcommy bits are coming, I promise, we're getting there! Incidentally, we'll also be revisiting some sparsely described scenes from LII in the next chapter, this time from Bard's and Thranduil's perspectives, so we've got that to look forward to :)


	4. Chapter 4

There have been a few times when Bard felt genuinely furious in his life - he is not easily riled up _or_ deterred, and arguing with people is pretty much in the job description, but he doesn’t think he remembers being this angry in a good long while.

He forces himself to breathe through it, let it pass him and leave him with _some_ idea where to go next, what steps to take, but it’s only working a little bit. It’s a very cold November this year, and the air stings in his lungs, not quite forming little clouds when he huffs it all out again, but close. At least he’s alone, for the moment - there’s the occasional dog walker in the distance, or a solitary jogger, but he’s chosen a spot away from the one functioning main road here on the island, so none ever venture too close to him, and honestly, he prefers it that way.

He should be making half a dozen calls right about now, but as it is, he simply sits, shoulders squared, hands shoved into his pockets, and thinks.

“Well, you’re looking chipper today.”

Bard startles, which makes Thranduil scoff at him fondly, before he hands him a cup of coffee - and what exactly gives him the right to just _sneak up_ on someone like that?

“Ugh,” Bard grumbles, accepting the cup, cradling it in both his hands.

“I see,” Thranduil sits down next to him, “you _did_ sound ready to murder someone on the phone. I presume the meeting went about as well as you would expect?”

“Worse,” Bard sighs, “much worse, actually.”

“Oh my,” Thranduil arches one eyebrow, “well, do elaborate.”

“It’s just... ugh,” Bard tries, “I hate this entire _thing._ Where politicians _think_ they know what’s good for _the people,_ but when someone tries to do something that’s _actually_ good, it’s suddenly not in line with their _visions,_ and stupid bloody _long-term plans._ The second I mentioned I wanted to look into _rebuilding_ here-” one sharp motion of his arm is enough to encompass the entirety of the island, “instead of razing it to the ground, you could just _see_ the fear, and the disapproval. Because god forbid _anybody_ wants to do anything actually _worthwhile_ with this pile of rubble. It’s like the entire island might sink if people start flocking here in droves, or something.”

“Hmm,” Thranduil stares into the distance, where the ruin of the old building is shrouded in the remnants of a morning mist, “did he give any indication as to what he actually wants to _do_ with the spot?”

“Oh, you know how it is,” Bard huffs, “he’d be happiest if half a dozen developers fought tooth and nail for it to build a glorified parking lot, or something. No matter if the site is historically significant, or that the park could be rejuvenated. When I told him I was dead set on Laketown happening here annually, he laughed at me, which I’m used to, but then he actually said the words _over my dead body,_ and I would have laughed at _him,_ if I didn’t feel like punching him instead.”

“So he’ll throw a few wrenches in the works, nothing new,” Thranduil shrugs, “we can counter every single one.”

“We can’t keep countering them _forever,_ though,” Bard says, “we’ll run out of money eventually. And the city is not going to give us a penny until long _after_ the fundraiser, because the Mayor is still secretly hoping the entire thing will tank, of course. And without _that_ money, we can’t afford a decent PR campaign, and without a decent PR campaign, we can’t sign on anybody actually _good_ for summer, and I know I said we could start off easy and small, but I feel like I’ve got _one_ shot at this, and if I fail now...”

“If you fail now, no one will let you try again,” Thranduil nods, without offering a single word of empty platitude, or reassurance - and honestly it’s kind of refreshing.

“Exactly,” Bard pouts, sipping on his coffee.

“You know,” Thranduil sighs, leaning back, shielding his eyes briefly against the sudden arrival of the sun, breaking through the autumn clouds, if only for a couple of seconds, “almost two years ago, I signed on for a similarly reckless venture. At that time, all I knew was I had to honor an ancient deal, and maybe give my son the opportunity to try and play in the big leagues. I never would have admitted it out loud to _anybody_ at the time, but as the thing progressed, as the actual play started taking shape and people started noticing, I became curious - hopeful, even. And my gamble - everybody’s gamble - more than paid off in the end.”

“Well, good for you, and good for Erebor,” Bard sighs, “but what’s your point?”

“My point is,” Thranduil offers a genuine smile, almost impossibly warm in the November cold, “I’m not in the habit of supporting doomed ventures. And I suppose my point is also this - somehow, don’t ask me how, I believe in you. Don’t lose your perspective just yet. You’re on the right track.”

“Oh,” Bard exhales, but then he _really_ looks at Thranduil, and back gazes an almost infuriating calm. The man measures him steadily, half expectant, half amused, and his hair is set ablaze by the sun, his eyes lent an even more piercing glint, and Bard thinks, _oh._

If anybody asked him how they arrived at this point, through which trick of the fates, he couldn’t answer them - not so long ago, Thranduil Greenleaf was chasing him out of his office on every available occasion, couldn’t stand the thought of Laketown ever happening, put on a big spiel about _traditions_ and _integrity_ and knowing Ered Luin’s scene so much better than Bard, but now... Somehow, they are _here_ \- in the literal sense of the word, sitting on a bench on the island, Thranduil having responded to his frustrated call the second Bard left the Mayor’s office by turning up not twenty minutes later, _with_ Bard’s exact coffee order... But also figuratively speaking, they’ve come to a point where they can not only _stand_ each other, but work together rather effectively, and just listening to Thranduil’s words calms him down, helps dissipate some of that tension in his shoulders, helps him to focus again.

If they ever manage to come out on top on the other end of this, Bard thinks, just maybe, he’s going to have to reevaluate some things.

“Thank you,” he says earnestly, “I mean... really. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Thranduil nods firmly, “although don’t let it go to your head.”

“No promises,” Bard laughs, then sighs raggedly, stretching his arms high up above his head. “God, but I feel like I’ve been through the wringer, and it’s only Monday.”

“You should try to relax a bit more, Director.”

“Coming from anyone else but you, I might take that advice seriously,” Bard snickers, “I’ve glimpsed at your schedule before. I’m surprised you even found the time to come meet me.”

“Yes, well,” Thranduil clears his throat in a suspicious display of embarrassment, like Bard happened on some closely guarded secret, “it did sound urgent.”

“I suppose it was, for a second,” Bard smiles, and wonders if Thranduil is thinking the same - _it actually wasn’t. I could have texted you, and we could have talked about it at any other point in time. I didn’t have to pick up the phone and think of calling you as the only logical next step after that meeting, and you didn’t have to hurry out of your office in the middle of the day to bring me coffee and sit on a moldy old bench with me, but somehow, here we are._

“You know, on account of that - relaxing, I mean,” Thranduil adds, and is it just Bard’s hearing playing tricks on him, or does he sound a bit uncertain? “I presume you’re familiar with Azog and his book.”

“Of course, although I don’t think I’d use his name and the word _relaxing_ in the same sentence.”

“Right, well,” Thranduil chuckles, “there’s a launch event on Friday...”

“Oh! Yeah, I know,” Bard grins, “my office actually received an invitation, believe it or not. I’m told he just wants as many important people as possible to be there, to look good.”

“Oh, absolutely, he’s invited half of Ered Luin,” Thranduil scoffs, then gives Bard a more careful look, one he can’t quite decipher yet. “So... You’ll be there?”

“Eh, I don’t know,” Bard shrugs, “you?”

“It’s a must for me, I’m afraid,” Thranduil sighs dramatically, “I’m expected. _But_ there will be free food and drink, and nearly everyone present will be very much inclined _against_ Azog, so it should be entertaining, at least.”

“Wait, so he’s throwing a party for people who _hate him?_ ” Bard inclines his head, “why?”

“How little you still understand about the social intricacies in this city, Director,” Thranduil smirks, “you _should_ come, if only to educate yourself.”

“Well, if you insist,” Bard teases.

Thranduil opens his mouth to deliver some no doubt witty response, but then he seems to decide against it, and only smiles to himself, looking, if Bard is to be any judge of his facial expressions at this point in their companionship, almost pleased.

“I do,” he says simply, “and wear your _good_ suit, please.”

“Oh, I see,” Bard cackles, “will we be at a threat of having our pictures taken at very inopportune moments?”

“Quite possibly.”

“Ah. Best come prepared, then.”

“Exactly.”

This... _warmth,_ between them, this comfort, that’s also blindsided him rather successfully, but he’s not going to second-guess it now, if it helps them get along, and get their work done swiftly and efficiently.

“Alright,” he slaps his knees, standing up, feeling infinitely more energized than five, ten minutes ago, “I’ve got to get going. Public transport will be the death of me, but don’t go quoting me, please.”

“I wouldn’t dare,” Thranduil smirks, falling into step by Bard’s side, “but why suffer it? Where’s your car?”

“Back home, I’m afraid. I didn’t want to drive to the meeting with the Mayor, but now I’ve got to pick it up, get Tilda home, and return to the office for the afternoon... Oh, also lunch would be nice, I suppose, but a man’s got to make some sacrifices.”

“Not necessarily,” Thranduil offers lightly, “unlike you, I did drive here. Have lunch with me, and I’ll drop you off at your place on my way back to _my_ office.”

“You don’t...” Bard falters, then laughs, accusing him: “My place is decidedly _not_ on your way to your office!”

“Well, nobody else needs to know that,” Thranduil smirks, and Bard _would_ dissect this entire thing more, probably will end up dissecting it more, but right now, he can hardly think of a better, easier way to escape traveling halfway across the city on bus after unreliable bus, as simple as that.

Spending a bit more time with Thranduil before their respective busy schedules force them apart once again has nothing to do with it, not at all.

“My treat,” he gives in.

“Out of the question.”

“Then I’m definitely in.”

* * *

He’s infinitely lucky that the paparazzi mostly leave him alone these days, because otherwise, someone might take a handful of wayward pictures of Director Bowman and him strolling down the island, _or_ grabbing a quick lunch in one of Thranduil’s favorite little places close by, _or_ getting into Thranduil’s car together, and then _assumptions_ would be made, and _questions_ would be asked, the answers to which would freely be _surmised_ without Thranduil actually denying _or_ confirming anything at all.

The truth of the matter is, he might have a hard time even answering those hypothetical questions properly - he himself isn’t half sure when or how the change happened between Bard and him, or of it even was a change at all, instead of a gradual arrival at... whatever is going on, right now.

The truth of the matter is, stepping out of his office mere minutes, _seconds_ after Bard had called him, and rushing halfway across the city to meet him, felt like the most natural thing to do, so easy and obvious that Thranduil didn’t even think twice about it until _after_ he’d parked his car near the island and marched out into the pleasantly cold November air.

So what if he’s taken a liking to the Director - it certainly beats actively despising his very presence in the city, anyone might agree. So what if Thranduil finds it difficult _not to_ stare when they share lunch that day, Bard somehow managing to hold a conversation with him _while also_ taking care of about three other incredibly important tasks via his phone alone. So what if Thranduil silently curses the lull in midday traffic when they drive over to Bard’s place, for not making their journey a couple of minutes longer, a couple more opportunities to chat richer.

So what if, he tells himself, sitting in his car alone _after_ dropping the Director off, he’s intrigued, and curious, and perhaps the teensiest bit overjoyed with Bard’s entire persona - it doesn’t _mean_ anything. They’re going to see each other at the event on Friday, probably barely enough time to call each other all week before that, and if Thranduil is a little bit disappointed, while also a little bit thrilled about the entire _concept_ of Friday, then really. So what.

And because he is, if anything, an excellent pretender, he manages to convince himself none of it means a damn thing, goes the entire rest of the week like that - until, of course, Friday.

He was only half kidding when he told Bard that his presence at the book launch is required, nay, expected. Anyone who’s someone in Ered Luin received the invitation a couple of weeks ago, and they all now congregate in the fancier rooms of City Hall to celebrate, yes, but mostly to drink, gossip, and insult people who are _almost_ certainly out of earshot - only Thranduil’s absolute favorite pastime.

Searching the crowd for familiar faces - alright, alright, _one_ familiar face among all the _other_ ones he already knows, but doesn’t desire the company of - Thranduil soon realizes Director Bowman hasn’t arrived yet, which makes the glasses of champagne floating by him on a tray a welcome distraction. He sips on the bubbles slowly, watching, listening, cataloging information to be pored over later, lost in thought, and so he doesn’t even notice the other, decidedly more _unwelcome_ distraction, headed his way, until they almost collide.

“Ugh. _Of course_ you would be here,” Thorin glares at him, and Thranduil, who is almost certain he unfortunately _didn’t_ manage to spill his champagne all over the man’s suit, only smiles beatifically.

“Of course. _Your_ presence, on the other hand, is a bit of a surprise. Thinking of slipping something into Azog’s drink when no one’s looking?”

“Thinking of slipping something into _your_ drink,” Thorin retorts, but there’s no particular vitriol to it, and he actually _continues_ talking, which is, in and of itself, astonishing. “No, I’m here to make sure Dis doesn’t get into trouble. She’s too curious for her own good.”

“Yes, I imagine she is,” Thranduil smirks, “still, a bit masochistic of you, both of you.”

“Nah, it’ll be fine,” Thorin grumbles, “not expecting Azog’s dreck to do any actual damage.”

“I hope you’re right, for all our sakes,” Thranduil says a bit too earnestly even for his own tastes, and the look Thorin shoots him echoes the sentiment - _how exactly_ is it that they’ve been standing side by side for more than thirty seconds _without_ insulting each other?

“How’s _Richard_ coming along?” he decides to test his luck further, even though leading an actual _conversation_ with the man is still vastly uncharted territory. “I understand there are some very amusing costuming choices to look forward to?”

Thorin opens his mouth to argue, but then he actually visibly decides against it, and only rolls his eyes, downing the rest of his glass.

“Yeah, yeah, laugh it up. It’s going fine. No hiccups.”

“Well, good,” Thranduil nods, and they descend into a silence that can’t quite be called _companionable,_ not in any sense of the word, but that isn’t, at the very least, brimming with the threat of a confrontation - something entirely new, but not entirely unpleasant, Thranduil must admit.

Far be it from him to assume past hurts mended, but he finds that he no longer feels the need to watch his oldest adversary crash and burn quite so epically - an admission he will likely not be making out loud any time soon, lest his reputation suffer terribly, but it’s the truth. He’s always had a grand old time reminding Thorin of all of the potential he’s been squandering, at any and all available occasion, but after _Midsummer..._ He’s not going to go so far as to proclaim a grudging respect for the man, but there’s no arguing with the facts. Thorin carried that production on his shoulders throughout the summer, just as much as Bilbo Baggins did, and Thranduil is not above admitting their incredible success - especially not since it’s so beneficial to him, as well.

Some others, however, are still understandably worried even seeing the two of them occupy the same space, as evidenced by Dis Oakenshield making her way through the crowd towards them at a pace that means she’s ready to dispel a building incident.

“Thorin, there you are!” she hollers at her brother, that particular slightly worried tinge to her voice, “and Thranduil, too, what a _pleasant_ surprise.”

“Yeah, yeah, here I am,” Thorin huffs fondly, “don’t worry, I wasn’t about to throttle him.”

“Could have fooled me,” Dis scowls at him.

“I second the non-threatening nature of _this_ particular meeting,” Thranduil smiles, and Dis measures both of them like a pair of misbehaving schoolboys - _those_ days are long gone now, thank god.

“Well, you can see how I’d be suspicious,” she decides at long last, which Thranduil laughs at, while Thorin is a picture of perfect innocence. “Either way, I’m afraid I’m going to have to break this up. Peredhel wanted to speak to you, Thorin, he’s just arrived.”

“We literally _just_ finished rehearsing two hours ago,” Thorin rolls his eyes, but scurries off in the direction pointed out to him, and Dis’ scrutinizing glare doesn’t diminish a bit after that.

“You’re looking weirdly chipper today,” she accuses Thranduil, who narrows his eyes at her.

“How do you mean?”

“I don’t know. It’s... something. Be careful, or people will actually start thinking you’re approachable.”

“God forbid,” Thranduil grins.

They snatch a fresh glass of bubbly from the waiter passing them in unplanned unison, and toast to nothing in particular - while Thranduil might appear _weirdly chipper,_ Dis looks tightly wound and worried, like she’s expecting this entire extravaganza to crash and burn any second now.

“It’s going to be alright,” Thranduil offers what words of encouragement he’s capable of, “this is all just for show.”

“Yes, I know,” she grumbles, “but you know how good he is at putting on _a show._ ”

They both glare at the instigator of tonight’s dangerous _social gathering_ across the vast hall, surrounded by a gaggle of his admirers and reporters - Azog is pushing eighty now, but that doesn’t stop him from looking like a nightmare clad in black, his menacing features only pronounced by the snow white of his hair.

If Thranduil is to admit any regrets in his life, it’s to have once believed that working with the man might be in any way good for him, and if he can help right some of those wrongs now, he will gladly do so.

“He has no actual sway over any of us, anymore,” he says, to reassure himself as well as Dis, “let’s just watch him be pompous for one night, and be done with it.”

“If you say so,” she pouts, “I just can’t believe I have to face him in a courtroom, only to watch him be all _nice_ and _sociable_ here. It’s so frustrating.”

“Well, of course. It’s just him trying all of his old tricks to lie his way through things, and failing. Twice in a row. You’re going to be just fine.”

She squints at him, but at least she’s momentarily distracted from her gloom.

“When did _you_ become all...”

“All?”

“Nice. You’re not supposed to be nice.”

“Well, excuse _me_ for trying to cheer you up,” Thranduil huffs, and she laughs.

“You’re excused. Maybe that’s it, then.”

“How do you mean?”

“Maybe that’s what’s so different about you,” she shrugs, “you’re becoming a nice person.”

“How dare you accuse me of that?” he feigns indignation.

“Just calling it as I see it,” she grins, “wonder what’s brought it about... Oh, but look who’s here! Oh my. Director Bowman sure cleans up nice, doesn’t he?”

Thranduil doesn’t hear her very well over the suddenly deafening beat of his heart, but he does turn to where she’s looking, and finds that he still _does_ hate it whenever he has to really agree with her on something.

Bard looks a bit out of place in the vast crowd, alone and clearly also searching for a familiar face, not unlike Thranduil only a little while ago, and he comes dressed to the nines - he’s wearing a lovely dove grey suit Thranduil hasn’t seen on him yet (not that he keeps a tally or anything), and it’s evident in the way he carries himself, just how unused to all this he still is. Needs to be rescued before he makes a fool of himself with that sharp tongue of his, of course.

Dis, unlike Thranduil, isn’t above waving, and the relief in Bard’s face when he spots them is palpable, although Thranduil’s own peace of mind disperses a bit more with each step closer the man takes - somehow, it seems, he’s forgotten to account for just how attractive their Cultural Director can look with his dark hair put in its place away from his face for a change, all clean shaven, and in a nice tie to boot. Alright, maybe that’s enough champagne for now.

“There you are,” Bard smiles, still a bit unsteadily, “god, there really is half the town here, huh?”

“I told you,” Thranduil chuckles.

“And Mrs Oakenshield. Good to see you again.”

“Dis, please,” she sighs, “and good to see you, too. I see you two are getting along a bit better than the last time we spoke.”

Thranduil quirks one eyebrow, and Bard shakes his head imperceptibly, _I’ll tell you later._

“A bit,” he smiles, “wouldn’t have gotten halfway to where I am right now if I suckerpunched him there at the beginning like I wanted to, I’m starting to realize.”

“Charming,” Thranduil rolls his eyes, and then, because apparently the alcohol really _is_ starting to have _some_ effect: “Admit it, Director, we make a good team.”

“You surprise me, _Principal._ I certainly would have _expected_ myself to be the first one to admit it, but here we are,” Bard shoots back effortlessly, and Thranduil laughs, motioning to him with his glass, _well played._

“You’ll never prove it.”

“I have my ways.”

It is then that Thranduil notices that for her part, Dis seems to be having the time of her life, watching them with a highly amused, and not a small bit curious, look.

“Well, _this_ is interesting,” she grins, “like two peas in a pod.”

Fortunately, before they can all try and fail to dissect the implications of _that,_ a commotion among the crowd signals that _something_ has started happening, and their attention is diverted towards the small stage on the other side of the room, where Azog has stepped into the spotlight.

“Oh boy,” Dis exhales, “I’d better go find Thorin. Excuse me.”

She disappears from them as quickly as she came, and the ebb and flow of the crowd naturally navigates Thranduil and Bard closer to the stage as well, where the horrible man of the hour is about to start some sort of speech.

“So, put me back in the loop, if you will,” Bard mutters to Thranduil, now forced to stand quite a bit closer than their personal space is perhaps entirely happy with, not that Thranduil finds himself minding that, _or_ the scent of Bard’s very inobtrusive, very nice cologne.

“Happy to,” he nods, “what about?”

“All _this,_ ” Bard gestures vaguely, “but mostly him. I’ve done a lot of reading, and I understand _some_ of the connections, and what he’s apparently trying to achieve with this book, but I’m still largely an outsider. And to an outsider, the words of some antediluvian critic don’t seem to hold all that much power, at least not anymore.”

“Ah, but he’s no _ordinary_ antediluvian critic,” Thranduil smiles bitterly, glaring at Azog, almost daring him to notice, “he’s had his claws in this city’s culture for decades, and there was a time when he could change the public opinion of it with a, a twist of his hand. Many people still consider him a real threat, even to this day, because he never _stops_ at writing scathing articles and entire insulting _books._ He’s been a very good friend of the Mayor’s for ages, which might tell you _something_ about the quality of his character.”

“And the quality of the Mayor’s, yes,” Bard says coolly, “and the lawsuit against him?”

“Just the latest of many, I’m afraid. Defamation, blatant lying, stuff like that. Never goes anywhere, but this book might actually be a blessing in disguise.”

“How so?”

“Despite his best efforts, Azog really _is_ getting old. And Erebor under the new management of our mutual acquaintance Mrs Oakenshield isn’t an Erebor that takes kindly to being lied about. I won’t bore you with a history lesson-”

“Oh, I wish you would,” Bard smiles, and Thranduil blames the heat in his cheeks on the room’s poor ventilation.

“Maybe later,” he gestures towards the stage, where the old man is taking a seat in a very obvious _things will start happening now_ way. “All you need to know for now is that the book might finally provide not only Erebor, but everyone else involved in this mess, with enough fodder to build a case substantial enough to make an actual dent. Or at least I very much hope so.”

Bard gazes at him curiously then, intrigued and intense, like he’s evaluating every single one of Thranduil’s words against his character, and he’s just glad Azog really does start talking then, otherwise he might not be able to bear it much longer.

“Ladies and gentlemen, it is my immense pleasure to see such a gathering of talent before me tonight,” Azog beings broadly after being formally introduced, and Thranduil knows with perfect certainty that he isn’t the only one to roll his eyes at the very sound of his voice. “Thank you all for coming. As you may have already heard, this book _will_ be my very last, a fact some of you might consider a relief-”

Scattered laughter, certainly _not_ from the people who know the full extent of the truth of that statement.

“But whatever the reason you decided to grace me with your presence, already you’ve become a part of why this night will surely be one to remember.”

Which, Thranduil will have recalled later, is truly an unintentionally _brilliant_ piece of foreshadowing.

“God, but he really _is_ a pompous old fart, isn’t he,” Bard mutters to him out of the corner of his mouth, which makes Thranduil snicker into his drink in a very undignified manner, and that, looking back? Yes, _also_ another little moment that should have informed him about how the rest of the night will go.

Azog _continues_ enjoying the sound of his own voice for quite a while longer, reads an excerpt from the book that has the right people groaning in shared frustration, while many others laugh and clap and take pictures, and Thranduil simply watches - exchanges many a disapproving glance with Elrond Peredhel across the room, promising himself to indulge in a bit of high brow gossip with him later, and keeps a watchful eye on the Oakenshields, Dis muttering words of reassurance to Thorin, whose face is turning stormier by the minute...

But all of that, he must admit, pales in comparison with the opportunity to look at Director Bowman’s face, and read in it exactly what he thinks of this entire endeavor - his already chiseled features turn sharp enough to cut marble when Azog begins his litany about _the importance of reminding all of these fresh-faced upstarts where their art started, and which direction it’s supposed to go in,_ and become downright righteously furious when the old man finishes his speech on a decidedly _old, tried and true is good, new is bad_ note.

“Hold on a second, now...” Thranduil attempts, that should be recorded for posterity, to stop him from confronting the man the second he limps off stage, but his hand on Bard’s arm stays him only for a second.

“There’s no sense arguing with him here, surrounded by so many of his lackeys,” Thranduil says gently, and Bard only scoffs.

“Oh, don’t worry,” he says with a smile sinister enough to impress even Thranduil, “I don’t want to _argue._ We simply haven’t been _introduced_ yet.”

Thranduil can’t help it, a surprised, delighted little laugh escapes him at _that_ display of unbridled, stupid determination, and he lets go of Bard, simply motioning for him to go on.

“Best of luck, then. This, I have to see.”

 _For once in his life,_ Thranduil decides, thinking back to that fated first meeting with the Director, the man turning up out of the blue and preaching to him with a fiery passion, _Azog has absolutely no idea what’s going to hit him._

Looking back, days, weeks later, he’s never entirely sure _when_ exactly it occurred to him, when he _knew_ \- the only certainty is, it happened at some point during that evening, and it happened so swiftly and yet thoroughly, Thranduil never knew what hit _him._

It might have been very early on, watching Bard _march up_ to Azog with a determination powerful enough to move mountains, or listening to him launch into a discussion with the man that _might have_ started out coldly polite, but that swiftly devolved into something that _other people_ started watching and paying attention to...

“Should I call the fire department?” Dis seemingly materializes by his side out of thin air, just when Bard and Azog are in the middle of a _heated_ argument about the distribution of funding, or some such thing, and Thranduil only chuckles.

“Might be for the best,” he nods, “but wait a while. I want to watch this.”

“Just make sure to rein him in before they start breaking things,” Dis sighs, one gentle hand on her brother’s arm, Thorin watching the entire exchange with a mixture of enjoyment and a hefty amount of anger of his own.

“Or don’t,” he shrugs, “god knows Azog’s been cruising for a broken nose for a while now.”

“You always find the loveliest turns of phrase,” Thranduil sniggers, and Thorin scowls at him.

...Or it might be some time after that, finally succeeding at dragging Bard away for a moment’s respite _after_ being forced to take a very formal-looking picture shaking his hand with Azog, and finding them a spot away from the crowd, listening to the Director going on and on about whatever infuriating opinion the critic had so rudely expressed... Only to realize he isn’t quite paying attention to the actual _words_ , as it were, but remains transfixed by Bard’s presence alone.

“Wait here,” Thranduil smiles, his hand resting on Bard’s arm to stall his tirade, without even thinking about it, “let me get us a drink.”

“I don’t... Oh, if you insist,” Bard sighs, smiling a bit himself.

“I do,” Thranduil says firmly, “don’t go anywhere.”

And Bard’s look shifts, from casual and amused to something a bit more intrigued, and Thranduil finally remembers to let go of his arm.

...And it really might be there and then, navigating the crowd with two glasses in hand, almost _joyful,_ and finding Bard still where he left him, _but_ deep in conversation with Thorin Oakenshield - seeing that, the two of them leaning on a wall side by side, thick as thieves, and feeling a quick, momentary hot pang of something he will avoid identifying as _jealousy_ for his own sake - that finally does him in, there’s no telling.

All he knows is, when the punch lands a little while later, and the crowd gasps in shock, one of Bard’s hands flies to his mouth to stifle his laughter, while the other settles on Thranduil’s forearm in a quick, probably largely reflexive gesture, and the fleeting touch of it _burns._

* * *

And the evening started out so well, too - Bard has known about _this_ particular social gathering long enough to make the necessary arrangements, make sure Sigrid would be free to look after the house for one night, even managed to secure himself a new suit, _and_ decided to look forward to the whole endeavor, rather than dread it...

But he really should have known by now, nothing’s ever that simple in Ered Luin.

 _Especially_ not when the vast majority of its cultural scene meet in one building for a night, to sip on some no doubt extremely expensive champagne, and gossip - he’s attended his fair share of social gatherings just like this one, and so he _mostly_ knows which hello’s to avoid and which to reciprocate, but the relief is still immense when he finally spots Thranduil in the crowd.

Bard doesn’t know if the man is even _aware_ that people are paying him attention - he towers over everybody, his smooth, pale hair almost unnaturally shiny and sleek, in a sharp contrast with the deep, dark blue of his suit, and Bard can suddenly imagine him a little better on this or that red carpet, so thoroughly divorced from the image of the man he gets to work with on a near-daily basis.

People are actually _staring,_ the hired photographers prowling around the room often pointing their oversized lenses his way, and Bard is hesitant to approach him at first, but then he sees Dis by his side, and she’s raising her hand in a greeting and an invitation both, and some of his nerves dissipate at that.

He wishes he were in any way able to discern when his curious interest evolves into barely contained anger, but he’s beginning to understand Azog has that way about him - one moment, Bard’s listening to his pompous speech with Thranduil by his side supplying a seemingly endless commentary filling in some of the gaps in Bard’s understanding of the entire situation, and then, he’s propelled forward by sheer frustration alone, to go _introduce_ himself to the old man, and give him a piece of his mind.

It might sound a bit preposterous said out loud, but the conviction is strong in his heart now - this is _his_ city, he cares for its people and its culture and the opportunities it offers all of them, and Azog has simply been around too long, has spent too much time tainting the waters with opinions so far out of their time they should be shut down, and forgotten altogether.

He certainly meets his conversational match in the ancient critic, who looks, at first, positively _delighted_ to finally meet him, and quickly goes on an almost unnoticeable, but no less potent, offensive, when he realizes Bard isn’t interested in niceties - what Azog _doesn’t_ know is that Bard has spent the better part of the past three months arguing with Thranduil Greenleaf on an almost daily basis, and is therefore more than prepared to counter witty turns of phrase and overarching metaphors at every step.

“Well played.”

It is also Thranduil who seems endlessly amused _and_ intrigued as he expertly steers Bard away from the gaggle of journalists and other interested parties that have gathered around Azog during that little entendre, and Bard groans, his frustration lingering.

“Oh, I’m nowhere near done with him,” he grumbles, letting himself be led through the crowd, just this once, “I mean, did you hear what he said about teaching theatre? How dare he disregard those kids like that? _You_ teach theatre, this should outrage you the most!”

“Oh, I’m outraged plenty, believe me,” Thranduil only smiles, somehow having succeeded at finding them a somewhat secluded spot away from the crowd, by one of the large windows overlooking the splendid backyard garden of the building. “But I’ve had to work _around_ the man for a while. Everyone in theatre in this city has. At this point, we’re all just waiting for him to go, really.”

“You know, I’ve always considered myself a pacifist,” Bard says bitterly, “but he’s really making me think again.”

“He does have that effect on people, yes,” Thranduil chuckles, and then proceeds to do the best possible thing for Bard, which is letting him _talk,_ and possibly also disappearing to get them both a drink when Bard needs it most.

All in all, he decides, leaning on the cool wall with some relief, this is shaping up to be quite the evening. He sends a quick text to Sigrid, to check in on them, and before he has the time to read her answer, he’s already deep in conversation with Thorin Oakenshield, of all people... There’s seemingly no slowing down tonight, but he wouldn’t have it any other way. There’s also, looking back, no foreseeing how the night will have ended, but that’s part of the fun as well, come to think of it.

“...Look, I’m just saying, if you end up taking on the entirety of the City Council, you’ll have _my_ vote,” Thorin grumbles into his beer, and Bard laughs - the man is almost as easy to complain to as Thranduil, and one day, when they’re better acquainted, Bard promises himself he will ask for his side of the story on that age-old rivalry between the two.

“Well, I appreciate that, but before I decide to single-handedly wrestle the powers that be, I think I need to focus on getting Laketown going. Did your sister mention the idea I had in mind for...?”

“The tickets? Yeah, yeah, I remember,” Thorin nods, “season passes for all the major theatres acting as tickets for the festival, right? I like it.”

“Well, the Mayor doesn’t,” Bard sighs, “something about the distinct socialist aura of the whole thing scares him, I think.”

“Pah, screw the Mayor,” Thorin huffs with endearing honesty, “relics like him and our dear friend Azog need to know when to retire, if you ask me.”

“Couldn’t agree more,” Bard nods, but then some commotion not far off catches his eye, and he motions for Thorin to look that way as well. “Looks like they’re up for causing some more trouble before that, though.”

A crowd of spectators is amassing around Azog on the far side of the room again, and it doesn’t take long to understand what’s going on - Bard sees Thranduil’s platinum mane, shoulders tense even at this distance, and beside him, Dis, who is quite literally standing toe to toe with the critic, cameras and disapproving looks be damned.

“Oh boy,” Thorin mirrors his sister’s sentiment from earlier, the two clearly used to supporting each other in all sorts of battles, “excuse me.”

But Bard follows him anyway, elbowing his way through people to stand by Thranduil’s side, nudging him lightly.

“What’s going on here?” he hisses.

“Director. Might just be the highlight of the evening, if you ask me. Here’s the drink I never delivered.”

He pushes a glass into Bard’s hand, and they stand literally shoulder to shoulder as Dis Oakenshield unleashes the full measure of her wrath on Azog, who, as Thranduil recaps, thought it wise to try and play nice with her _while_ simultaneously insulting her theatre, her entire _family_ , in his new book, not to mention trying to sink her in court... It’s all very dramatic, and Bard feels like an outsider still, but as he watches the woman more than hold her own, while never losing a shred of her poise and elegance, he can’t help but begin hatching a certain plan, to perhaps, maybe help her out in the future.

The _true_ highlight of the evening, however, is yet to come, and it comes, as with all the best things, when they expect it the least.

“...And your opinion, Director Bowman?”

“My opinion on... hm? Excuse me?” Bard is forced to pay attention, having lost himself in his thoughts - and the champagne - a bit.

“You spoke so passionately about the need to preserve what _good_ tradition is left in this city, earlier,” Azog _smiles_ at him, and yes, he’s been around long enough now to know that nothing good ever comes out of _that._

“I did,” Bard admits carefully, looking both to Thranduil _and_ the Oakenshield siblings, and meeting with three equally displeased - and, in Thorin’s case, downright furious - frowns. “But I don’t believe I stopped there. I also mentioned how important it is to _build_ on that tradition.”

“Indeed,” the critic smirks into his alcohol, his words dripping with disdain, “ _respect_ it. And don’t you then agree that theatres with a history as long and... _rich_ as Erebor, should be paragons of that respect? Do their very best to keep tradition alive, not... mar it with needless attempts at _modernization_ -”

“You’ve got to be _joking,_ ” Bard laughs, surprising himself least of all, “are we _still_ having this discussion?”

Thranduil opens his mouth to support him, but then decides against it, only smiling and offering the slightest nod - _all yours._

“Evidently,” Dis rolls her eyes, while Thorin crosses his arms over his chest.

“Did I not make it perfectly clear _why_ I came to this city, earlier?” Bard continues, and the man watches him with only a performative smile now - it never reaches his reptile-cold eyes. “Tradition only stays alive if it is kindled continuously, taken and disassembled and reshaped until it _fits_ the world it lives in. _That’s_ what I believe in, and that’s what the people in this city have been trying to do, and _have been_ doing quite successfully, _in spite_ of _other_ people telling them to stop, and berating them every step of the way. What Erebor did with Shakespeare, and Bree before them, and, if I am to have any say in the matter, many will do _after_ them, is nothing short of a miracle, and I will not have _anyone_ trying to belittle those achievements.”

For all the gratitude he sees in Dis’ eyes, and the quiet, but no less intense appreciation in Thranduil’s, Bard is getting pummeled with the contempt in Azog’s, and those of his loyal followers, but he finds he doesn’t care in the slightest - _this..._ this is, yes, also a part of the job, but mostly, he’s discovering, immensely exciting.

“I do seem to remember your grandfather was never quite this _reactionary._ ”

...Until all his blood is freezing in his veins, that is.

“I would thank you not to mention my grandfather,” he says, managing to keep his voice calm, but he knows, he knows by Azog’s sly smirk - this is what the man is best at, after all. _Knowing_ things about people, ancient, sore things, and knowing exactly when to dredge them up.

“Oh, but since we’re on the topic of _tradition,_ I think it might be necessary,” the critic says mock-casually, “after all, this city is full of absent father figures, rarely lived up to.”

That has the effect of pushing at least two people to some sort of brink - Thranduil and Thorin take a warning step forward in an almost eerie unison.

“Watch your mouth,” Thorin growls, and Bard’s hand almost shoots forward to offer some champagne-fueled reassurance to Thranduil, before he sees Dis doing the same to her brother, and decides _against_ looking like an idiot.

“Come to think of it,” Azog continues his tirade, seemingly blissfully unaware of the building storm clouds, “ _that_ particular topic was left woefully underdeveloped in the book! Perhaps I’ll find enough material to come back for one last volume.”

“You _cannot_ be serious.” That’s Dis, _her_ anger with a tinge of hurt, and Bard would feel sorry for her, if he didn’t know with absolute certainty she’s perfectly capable of wrecking Azog without all their help, if she so chooses.

“Most of the old guard are gone now, of course, but I do wonder,” the old man chuckles, “I haven’t been to see _your_ father, Thorin, in _such_ a long time...”

The room takes an anxious breath, all eyes focused their way now, it seems like.

“Alright,” Thorin’s jaw clenches, he nods as if to confirm his next decision with himself, takes a step back, and then time briefly stops.

He lands the punch beautifully, if Bard is to be any judge of that, straight in the nose, and Azog staggers, then crumples in on himself, and everything is blissfully quiet for one shining second out of time, before the uproar.

Or, an uproar that doesn’t happen in quite the way Bard would expect - he himself fights a burst of shocked laughter, his hand flying to his mouth, and he doesn’t need to look at Thranduil to confirm that his reaction isn’t in any way unusual. Dis gasps in a nasty shock, but even the corners of her mouth are teetering on the brink of a grin as she hurries to her brother, scolding him only half-heartedly, and...

People _are_ staring, yes, but there’s no indignant shouting, no accusations flying - Azog simply regains his balance, clutching his probably decidedly broken nose, and points a shaking finger at Thorin, who looks, at least to Bard’s eyes, happiest he’s been all evening.

“You-!” the critic accuses him.

“Yeah?” the actor quirks one eyebrow, “something you wanna put in your next book?”

Someone laughs in earnest then - might be Bard himself, who knows at this point - and the spell is broken. Most of the people a little further off are either all struggling to get closer, or simply turn away, their alcohol more important, and the chatter is suddenly loud and incessant. It’s when he hears the first telltale clicks of cameras that _some_ warning bells start chiming in Bard’s head, and he turns around to assess - it is then that he also happens to realize his hand has been on Thranduil’s forearm for... how long? The touch shifts, Thranduil now getting a firm grip on _him,_ and one look from him makes things clear - things are going to get really loud, really quickly.

“I don’t know about you, but I don’t want to get caught in _this_ crossfire. Let’s go,” Thranduil beckons him, his fingers gentle but firm around Bard’s wrist, and he doesn’t question it for a second - he shoots one last look to Dis, who is also ushering her brother in a direction firmly _away_ from the amassing crowd of photographers and gossip-hungry journalists, and then, he goes.

* * *

They make it out of the building more or less unscathed, and Thranduil doesn’t know if Bard shares his urge _not_ to engage in the furore that is no doubt to follow after Thorin’s little display, but he follows him anyway, and it’s enough.

“Feel like I just made an enemy for life,” Bard laughs breathlessly, throwing on his coat to shield him against the surprisingly cold late-November night, and Thranduil _could_ stare, at the gleam in his eyes and at his hair coming undone just a bit, but he saves that for later.

“One of many, I imagine,” he opts for a gentle jab, “let’s get out of here, shall we?”

“Well now, hold on,” Bard looks back towards the building, “shouldn’t we... I don’t know, see how it plays out? I’m kind of curious.”

“I can tell you exactly how it will play out,” Thranduil sighs, scouring the street for the promise of an incoming cab, “it will become a tabloid sensation for a week or two, but no one will be too surprised. Most of the people _I_ know will swear on their life they never saw it happen. Thorin and Dis definitely will, and others will join them.”

“ _He just tripped, I swear, officer?_ ” Bard jokes, “very _Fuente Ovejuna,_ isn’t it.”

“Something like that. Azog _despises_ being embarrassed, so he himself will make sure it doesn’t become a huge story, I can guarantee you that-”

“Director Bowman, over here! A word on what just happened inside?”

“Oh my,” Bard goes impressively pale, impressively fast, at the sight of a few opportunist journalists who have caught wind of what’s going on, and have followed them and a handful of others outside. “You’re right, let’s get out of here.”

Thranduil stuffs them both in an incoming cab with truly masterful speed, and orders it to simply drive away while they figure out where they actually want to go.

“Have dinner with me,” he blurts out _a bit_ too quickly, but fortunately, Bard doesn’t even think twice, and smiles like the sun after Thranduil adds: “We _are_ dressed the part.”

“You’re right about that. Did you have a place in mind?”

Thranduil thinks on it - actually considers their entire brief history up until this point, not that Director Bowman needs to know _that_ \- and tries to discern if this is too much, too fast, too reckless... But no, no he’s never been one to deny himself opportunities that bring him delight.

“Yes,” he replies simply, and dictates the address to the driver.

“That’s a bit posh,” Bard notes, amused, and Thranduil shrugs.

“We _are_ dressed the part,” he repeats, which grants him another one from the Director’s seemingly inexhaustible repertoire of heart-stopping smiles.

“Fine. My treat, this time.”

“Out of the question,” Thranduil recalls their game.

“No, no. You’ve been doing me favors left and right. Someone might catch on and accuse you of favoritism, or something.”

_Maybe that’s what’s so different about you - you’re becoming a nice person._

“Oh, my reasons have been thoroughly selfish this entire time, I assure you,” he counters effortlessly, and Bard’s eyes have a strange, lovely gleam to them in the dark.

“Have they?”

“But of course. It wouldn’t do for my investment to go under before it goes through.”

“Oh, I see!” Bard guffaws, his joviality no doubt fueled by all the champagne they managed to drink before their impromptu departure, “is that what I am to you? An investment? My _feelings!_ ”

Thranduil wants to offer a quick reply, a satisfyingly scathing one, to keep that smile around a bit longer, but - not for the first time that night, and perhaps not for the last - he finds that the right words fail him.

He settles for scoffing fondly, and staring out of the window at the passing blurs of street lights, hoping none of them succeed at illuminating the actual expression on his face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are! Sorry for the delay, but then I was kind of always thinking that MORE should be happening in this chapter, and it never did - I have absolutely no idea how I wrote 8k about champagne and people arguing, don't ask me, I just really wanted to cover that scene of Thorin punching Azog that never got properly explored in Love In Idleness, and ended up with... this. This chapter has a strange sort of transitional feeling to it, I actually wanted to include the dinner they abscond to at the very end, but the wordcount was getting to be a bit too chunky. I promise we'll learn more about it in the next chapter, which, I can say with some confidence, will be faster to arrive. Hope you enjoyed, let me know what you think <3


	5. Chapter 5

She finally hears the rattling of keys at the front door what must be pretty late at night, because the sound wakes her from dozing off on the couch, the TV still running, but this episode of _Brooklyn Nine Nine_ is decidedly _not_ the same one she was watching what seems like a minute ago.

Sigrid gets up only reluctantly, disentangling from her blanket, and blearily checks the time on her phone.

“Jeez, Da, finally,” she grumbles, not really expecting him to hear yet.

“I know, I know, sorry,” he sighs anyway, already making his way across the living room, “I got held up, there was... I got held up.”

“Uh-huh,” she sniggers, joining him at the kitchen counter as he pours himself a glass of water, looking at him expectantly. “Had fun, did you?”

His lips move soundlessly at first, as if he’s repeating her words to himself to grasp them better, and then he sighs again, but not without a smile, rubbing his forehead in a vain attempt to hide it.

“It was... yeah. It was something. You might read about it in a tabloid or two at some point, actually.”

“Oh, _that much_ fun, huh?” she giggles, and he only glares as he downs his glass thirstily.

“Don’t worry, I didn’t get into any trouble,” he reassures her, “we left right on time.”

“ _We,_ is it?” she decides she can afford to prod a little further, “how’s Mr Greenleaf, then?”

“He-” her Dad starts, but then stops himself just in time, glaring some more, seeing right through her - it’s a good thing, then, that she’s learned to see right through _him_ in turn.

“He’s just fine,” he grumbles, “now off to bed with you. Thank you for looking after everything.”

“You’re _so_ welcome,” she grins, “I’d be more than happy to do it more often, you know. If you ever need to, uh... get held up again...”

“ _Alright,_ ” he huffs, trying and failing to swat at her with the nearest dishcloth, “that’s enough out of _you._ ”

“Uh-huh,” Sigrid beams at him, “get some sleep, Da. Night night.”

“I’m going, I’m going. You too!”

“Yeah, yeah, don’t worry.”

Their roles temporarily reversed, she doesn’t need to try too hard to usher him to bed - he makes his way out of the kitchen on just slightly unsteady feet, and Sigrid watches him fondly until he disappears into the hallway - without a sound, she follows him only to prevent him tripping over something, and sure enough, he opens the door to Tilda’s room first, quietly and carefully, to check on her, before finally arriving in his own bedroom, already loosening his tie. However, he stops in the doorway for some odd reason, and there’s no light anywhere to be found, but she still notices that strange gleam in his eye - might be champagne or wine or something, but somehow, Sigrid knows better.

He raises his fingers to his mouth, tapping his lips in that endearing tick of his, always thinking, always _pondering_ over something, but this time, he stares into space, and the ghost of a smile lingers in his face, as does _some_ memory Sigrid will probably not be privy to any time soon.

“Go to _sleep,_ Da,” she orders him sternly, and enjoys the sight of him startling like _he’s_ the teenager in here, then pouting at her.

“Fine, fine, alright.”

“Don’t sleep in your suit. Wouldn’t wanna ruin it.”

“No worries,” he smiles, raising his hand in one last wave, and then the door to his bedroom finally clicks shut behind him.

Sigrid shakes her head, and returns to the living room to tidy up after herself, making sure everything is in its place, swiping the kitchen counter clean in quick, practiced movements, even though it barely needs it... She stops to look at the picture of her Mom stuck to the fridge, smiling in her large straw hat, shielding her eyes from the sun. That’s how Sigrid remembers her best, picking herbs in their little patch of a city garden, her hands always a bit muddy, dirt behind her fingernails, the smell of fresh earth when she pulled Sigrid close and explained the properties of this or that plant to her.

“It’s fine,” she mumbles to the faded photograph, “really, Mom. I’m looking after them, just like I promised.”

She wishes her Mom goodnight, too, brushing her fingertips across the surface of the picture and, satisfied and no small bit tired, she finally heads to bed. And if she hears her Dad laughing quietly in his bedroom at god knows what, she keeps her reaction to a slightly exasperated smile only, and her speculations firmly to herself.

* * *

“Oh, I’m going to wake up with the headache of the century,” Bard complains, watching the waiter refill their glasses, and Thranduil only smirks at him, already bringing his to his lips.

“I didn’t take you for such a lightweight, Director.”

“I am _not_ a- It’s just that I don’t get very many opportunities to drink, these days,” Bard scowls at him, “three kids at home and all.”

“Ah, yes,” Thranduil reclines in his chair, “then it’s only natural that you should indulge tonight. You deserve it.”

“You _are_ trying to get me drunk,” Bard accuses him, “to have dirt on me later. Just admit it.”

“I’ll admit nothing of the sort,” Thranduil laughs, “though I _am_ curious to see how many glasses it will take for you to finally start divulging the really _good_ secrets.”

“No such luck,” Bard counters, “see, our food is here. That’s going to keep my stomach in check.”

“If you say so,” Thranduil snickers.

At any other point in time, Bard might have given it more thought, the way this entire night has been unfolding, but he doesn’t know about Thranduil, but this is certainly _his_ first time witnessing a public... _event_ like that and subsequently running away from the paps _and_ agreeing to have dinner in the span of what seemed, in the moment, like about thirty seconds... Oh, who is he kidding, this _can’t_ be Thranduil’s first time, not by a long shot.

He looks at his companion in a rare unguarded moment, the two of them digging into their food, and he wonders privately to himself if... if he does this all the time. If this is the spot he takes out all his work acquaintances turned cautious friends, dines them and wines them before... _Alright,_ might be time to concentrate on his pasta now.

“Oh dear,” he mutters, moving to put his phone away for good, but stopped in his tracks by a message marked urgent from his office, and Thranduil merely watches on, his interest polite at first sight, but if Bard has come to learn anything about him, it’s that gossip _fuels_ him.

“What is it?” he asks innocently, “everything alright at home?”

“At home- no no,” Bard chuckles, “this is from my office. Already they want to know if I saw what happened, and where I am. Like I’m going to go and blab to the closest tabloid about it, excuse me...”

He types in a quick reply, noticing Thranduil also frowning at his phone gently as he does so, and wonders some more - how has this become his new normal? They’re both incredibly busy men, so busy that their work follows them literally everywhere they go, and if they’ve somehow managed to carve out some time to spend in each other’s company, yet again, how can they tell, how can either of them tell, where the line between business and... he doesn’t want to say _pleasure,_ but yes, pleasure, lies?

“Fortunately, I think we left right on time. We _might_ have looked marginally better in a picture together, though, new suits and all.”

“If you want that badly for us to end up in a picture together, be my guest and let’s send a selfie to my seven year old daughter right now,” Bard shoots back effortlessly, “but I’d rather stay out of the tabloids for as long as humanly possible, if you don’t mind.”

Then again, maybe they crossed the line ages ago, when neither of them was looking, and what they’re hurtling towards now is something else, something new, unknown and uncharted.

Thranduil looks at him with a strange sort of curiosity before laughing gently, shaking his head.

“Bad experiences in the past?” he asks ever so casually, “with tabloids, I mean, not selfies.”

“Nowhere near as many as you, I imagine,” Bard prods at him, “but yeah. There have been... some.”

“How exciting. Did you get into trouble, Director?”

“God, I wish,” Bard grumbles into his penne, “no, this was... I was working on a couple of rather high-profile things back in London, a while back. Right around the time that... that my wife died, actually.”

“Oh,” Thranduil simply nods, and Bard _knows,_ although he couldn’t really describe _how,_ that he understands. “Vultures.”

“Yeah. But that really was a very long time ago. I’ve been taking care to appear all nice and polished in the media ever since, I assure you.”

“Nice and polished,” Thranduil snickers, “somehow, neither of those words suit you very well in my mind.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” Bard gestures with his fork.

“As you should,” Thranduil gazes at him steadily, and no amount of alcohol _or_ really delicious Italian food will ever fool Bard into thinking he’s only imagining the intensity in his eyes.

It doesn’t go away. The restaurant Thranduil had picked out for them really is _incredibly_ fancy, fancier and more expensive than anything Bard has visited here in Ered Luin, or would ever even _think_ to visit on his own, but the unsettling luxury fortunately comes with privacy - the tables are all very far away from each other, and theirs is on the second floor of the establishment, by a large arched window overlooking a slant of rooftops, their angles offering a breathtaking view of the river itself not too far away, the ever-changing surface of water illuminated by the dancing oranges and golds of street lights.

The waiter only comes by when they absolutely require him, and they aren’t close enough to other people for someone else’s conversations to bother them, and so their own meanders, as it’s always wont to do these days. Thranduil sheds more light on some of his own past tabloid-worthy shenanigans, not without a tinge of bitter self-deprecation that only assures Bard that his assumptions and everyone else’s speculations have been correct - he’s changed at some point, Thranduil has, from the unstoppable A-lister accepting awards and performing grand speeches left and right, seemingly never staying in place, to... This, the man sitting before him, laughing until he chokes on his mussels a little bit, the man who really _does_ devote all his time and resources to running a school, the man Bard has grown to know and, lo and behold, actually _like_ over the past couple of months.

“How’s Legolas doing?” he thinks to ask at some point, and alright, clearly there are _some_ topics any other saner person would still know to stay away from, but then again, they both _are_ on their third glass of champagne _at least,_ and Thranduil only looks displeased for the tiniest fraction of a moment, before sighing heavily, putting down his utensils and dabbing at his mouth with a napkin, chocolate fondant momentarily forgotten, before he answers.

“Most of the time? I wish I knew,” he says with surprising honesty, “some days, it’s... good. I think. Other days, not so much. You know?”

“I know,” Bard laughs at _that_ eloquent description of that particular experience every parent of a teenager has to go through sooner or later. “I’d suggest giving him his space, but somehow, I don’t think that’s the issue.”

“It’s not. If anything, I believe I might have given him _too much_ space, at some point, and we never quite... Never quite found our way back towards each other again.”

 _That_ succeeds at tugging at Bard’s heartstrings, and he doesn’t even think Thranduil meant to sound so melodramatic - it’s just him being actually honest, both with Bard _and_ with himself, for once.

“I _am_ very proud of him, you know,” Thranduil adds after a moment’s silence, all but pouting now, and Bard smiles at him, the sudden urge to reach out across the table and pat his hand having blindsided him rather thoroughly.

“Right. Does _he_ know that?” he inclines his head, and Thranduil scowls.

“How do you mean?”

“I mean, have you actually _told him_ that you’re proud of him? In recent memory? Ever?” 

Thranduil opens his mouth to retort swiftly, but it never happens - instead, he glares some, then retreats to his glass.

“Far be it from me to go offering you parenting advice,” Bard continues, “but he’s not ten anymore, you know. He’s grown, and he’s got a mind of his own, and you can actually _talk to him_ now. _Really_ say the things you mean.”

“You make it sound so simple,” Thranduil grumbles, and Bard laughs.

“I know! But it is, it’s deceptively simple, once you give it a try. The window is quite short, too, you know, before he’s off, out there in the world on his own. Better late than never, I say.”

Thranduil stares at him, eyes wide, as if he’s actually committing every one of his words to memory, his fingers rapping on the table absentmindedly, in a manner that Bard unfortunately finds utterly distracting.

“Then... how do I make him listen?” he asks at last, almost cautiously, and Bard laughs, which startles not only Thranduil, but also the approaching waiter, who only refills their glasses since they don’t protest, and disappears as fast as he came.

“Oh, I’m sure you know by now that you can’t _make him_ do a damn thing. I can’t figure it out for you. You just have to give it your best shot, and hope for the best in turn, I suppose.”

“Is that what you have been doing?” Thranduil wonders, almost ready to start taking notes on proper parenting, by the looks of him.

“Me? No no,” Bard guffaws, “I am just that _good._ Communicating with my children from day one. Perfect balance between nature and nurture, freedom and safety. Homemade lunches, matching socks every time, the whole deal.”

That succeeds at making Thranduil laugh, which is a good thing, because the world of hurt Bard can still see behind every sentence he utters about his son, unsettles him somewhat.

“I mess up all the time,” he corrects himself, “really, I do. I have _three_ children, for crying out loud, each with their own unique set of needs, and wants, and, and weird little habits, and no one to help me navigate them anymore. I make mistakes every damn day. But when all else fails, I just... I always try to treat them like people. Little people, sure, people who insist _really hard_ on having all their sandwich crusts cut off, but still, people. Guess it’s working out so far, since we’re all still together.”

Thranduil is looking at him intently enough to set him on fire, but it’s a good kind of intensity. Bard can sense he’s getting somewhere, peeking at a part of him he doesn’t necessarily let other people see very often, and two thoughts war for attention in his head - if he were a therapist, he could write Thranduil a very fat check for all of this, but also, and this thought is becoming more prominent by the minute, if Bard is in any way capable of actually turning the tables and helping _him_ for a change, he’s damn well going to do it.

For his part, Thranduil seems to hesitate only momentarily, only like he’s trying to discern if he should bother Bard with his issues or not, but fortunately, he decides in the favor of sharing, and proceeds to tell him _everything._

Reluctantly at first, he talks of Legolas and his plans to leave home, of the years they spent not quite talking and never really apologizing, and a couple of glasses of alcohol turn into popping open a new bottle, and Bard finds he not only doesn’t mind, but forgets to check the time completely.

Much like their very first _accidentally_ personal talk when Thranduil sat on Bard’s couch in his living room what seems like ages ago now, neither of them is quite sure why or how they’re suddenly sharing so much with the other, but it comes so naturally that they don’t even have the time to question it. It continues well past dessert, well into their second bottle of champagne, well into the night - a bit _too long_ into the night, come to think of it, a fact Bard discovers when he does finally think to check his phone.

 _Hope you’re having fun, everyone’s going to bed now,_ is the latest message from Sigrid, and Thranduil understands immediately when Bard sighs a bit guiltily.

“Shall I order another taxi?” he asks after hailing the waiter to fetch their check, and Bard opens his mouth to agree, but then something else is stirring in him, something insisting that this doesn’t have to be it - that he doesn’t want it to be.

“You know what?” he smiles, “my house is actually pretty close by. Let’s walk... Unless, I mean... You don’t have to go...”

Right, good save, or he might have actually sounded smooth for once in his life.

“Believe it or not, I can actually call for a cab for myself wherever I am in the city,” Thranduil opts to tease him, “technology these days, huh?”

The chilly night air surprises them a bit at first, but their cheeks and hearts alike are warmed not exclusively by all the alcohol, and they make their way in the vague direction of Bard’s neighborhood at a pace that attempts to be brisk at first, but soon devolves into a somewhat uneven saunter.

By the time they reach the river, they’ve sunken into a companionable silence for a moment, each lost in thought, striding in unplanned unison - the sight of the water, like a ribbon of gold threading through the buildings, takes Bard’s breath away, and he hurries ahead to lean on the metal railing protecting him from actually plummeting to a wet, cold death in his eagerness. It takes him a couple of seconds to realize Thranduil is a bit reluctant to follow, and when he turns back over his shoulder to find out why, he sees the man watching him with... something approaching a level of fondness Bard is quite unused to seeing from him.

“Don’t worry, it’s a bit too cold for a midnight dip,” he says a bit pointlessly, and Thranduil chuckles, joining him at last, standing by his side, hands in his pockets, the glow of streetlights lending his eyes a lovely gleam, his long hair set ablaze by them, too... Okay, now it’s Bard who’s staring.

“Hmm...?” his brain only acknowledges the fact that he’s just been asked a question very superficially, but fortunately Thranduil doesn’t seem to be opposed to repeating it.

“I asked, why did you come back?” he says quietly, not looking at Bard just yet, but rather gazing firmly ahead, sharp features underlined with gentle brushstrokes of gold. “Here, I mean. To Ered Luin.”

“Oh,” Bard frowns, mostly to steer his thoughts back towards the conversation actually happening, not the one he’s fighting and losing with himself in his head, “haven’t we covered this already?”

“Have we?” Thranduil smiles, “I don’t recall.”

Bard would like to reply quicker, smoother, _of course we have, I told you all about what my children needed, about how big and lucky a find the house was,_ but he knows far too well that’s not what Thranduil is asking, and it’s not what Bard is going to say this time, either.

“It was time,” he sighs, and it suddenly feels like a weight is being lifted, one he didn’t even know was there resting on his shoulders up until this precise moment. “I left so early, right after university, and I told myself it was because I suddenly had _offers_ , suddenly had _options,_ but the truth was... My father had just died, and I was running away. I promised myself I would come back, at some point, but there was never enough _time,_ after that. I met Jules, I married her, the children came... I never even took her back here, if you can believe that. I never took her here, and when the offer came to take over the position of Cultural Director, and the address of the office read _Ered Luin,_ I... Suddenly I felt like I had wasted _years_ , not being here. Not being _here._ ”

He doesn’t know if he’s making _any_ sense whatsoever, but fortunately Thranduil doesn’t comment, and anyway, there are some things Bard can’t explain very well, not yet - how it feels to walk the same streets, to remember their names even after all this time. How it feels to drive by his parents’ old place almost every day on his way to work, and how the urge to simply go up to that door, go in, and _see,_ presses down on his lungs so heavy some days that breathing suddenly becomes difficult.

How restoring Laketown feels like keeping a promise and delivering a long-overdue apology at the same time.

When he finally braves looking at his companion again, it’s to be confronted with the sight of him staring directly at Bard, _glaring_ even, like his words had an impact far more profound that Bard could have possibly anticipated.

He registers, somehow, that they’re also standing quite close at this point, Thranduil’s hand gripping the metal railing so close to Bard’s own, and the subtle herringbone pattern of his luxurious coat becomes _extremely_ interesting.

“...You?” Bard thinks to ask, at least, clearing his throat somewhat awkwardly, and a tiny frown creases Thranduil’s forehead.

“What about me?”

“Why did _you_ come back?”

“What do you mean?” Thranduil asks slowly, almost laboriously, like he has to really concentrate to actually keep the conversation going, “I’ve always been here.”

“No, you haven’t,” Bard laughs, “you spent years on red carpets all over the world, you accepted awards left and right, you wore that... that horrible velvet _monstrosity_ to the Oscars, and then, suddenly, you were back here, and you established a _school,_ of all things. So- why?”

Just as Bard knew, so does Thranduil know that he isn’t asking about his son, or about his disdain for the paparazzi - Bard himself isn’t half sure what exactly he means to find out, but if the burning heat in his cheeks is any indication of _anything at all,_ it’s that he means to find out _right now._

“I was tired of running,” Thranduil admits, quietly, almost sadly, “no matter where I went, no matter how many movies and awards and red carpets came my way, I never felt like I belonged. I never felt like I could build a life wherein my son would respect me, and- _hold on._ ”

“W-what?” Bard stammers, taking a step back quite unwittingly, because Thranduil goes from wistful and thoughtful to _interested_ in the span of about a second, and it succeeds at stealing his breath away. “What is it?”

“My _suit,_ ” Thranduil huffs, offended to an almost theatrical degree, “you insulted my wonderful velvet Oscar suit.”

“Oh my god,” Bard allows even more space between them, the cold air that rushes back to where the heat of the moment lingered just a second ago making his lungs burn, making laughter bubble up in his throat.

“You called it _a monstrosity._ ”

“So I did,” he has the good sense to look at least a bit bashful, “in my defense-”

“No, no, there is no _defending yourself_ here,” Thranduil waves his hand, “it’s the nicest thing I own. How dare you.”

“Hold on, hold on, _own,_ as in present tense? As in, you still have it?”

“Well, of course I still have it!” Thranduil gasps, “it’s a _Givenchy,_ made especially for me at the time! It cost thousands of pounds!”

“Oh my _god,_ ” Bard repeats, not a care in the world for the fact that it’s just the two of them, bickering very loudly right in the heart of the city - they have resumed their walk now, headed vaguely towards his home, but he finds he is in no particular hurry to get there.

“You are a horrible man with no taste in fashion,” Thranduil accuses him, all but turning his nose up at him, purposefully striding a bit faster so that Bard has to trot to catch up.

“You are absolutely right,” he sighs solemnly, “although maybe it’s just my natural selflessness at play - I don’t think the world is ready for the sight of me in velvet.”

There are occasions, little moments out of time that one looks back at, ages later, and thinks, _that was it. This is where I knew, although I didn’t_ know _yet._ For Bard, although he is of course completely oblivious to the fact now, that moment is this - Thranduil bursts into laughter, loud, unbridled, _genuine_ laughter, all but throwing his head back, crinkles around his eyes and a glow to his entire person as he stands there cackling in the middle of the street like a madman, and something tightly wound and held secure up until that point unspools itself somewhere deep inside Bard’s chest, all at once.

He carries it with him all the way home - he couldn’t recall the rest of their walk if he tried, because it’s spent in a hazy array of flinging half-hearted jabs and insults back and forth, and before he knows it, they are standing by the fence by his house, and he doesn’t even have the time to properly register that _something_ has changed before they’re saying their goodbyes.

A part of Bard knows they’re going to see each other again in a couple of days, knows there’s nothing particularly special about this night, certainly not anything that should make him feel this despondent about it ending, but he can’t for the life of him come up with a single way to prolong it.

Well, there are _some_ ways, but those require someone else’s life and time, someone without three sleeping children at home, someone braver and more reckless at the same time.

“Tonight was...” he attempts to find some middle ground.

“Eventful, yes,” Thranduil helps him along - they’re currently hovering, both of them, Bard’s hand on the gate handle, while Thranduil rakes his fingers through his hair, a bit absently perhaps. “If we do appear in a tabloid picture or three together tomorrow, let it be our consolation that we _were_ both dressed for the occasion.”

“True. Not an inch of velvet in sight.”

“ _Alright,_ ” Thranduil rolls his eyes, but clearly remains incapable of fighting off his grin, “ _good night_ , Director.”

“Good night, _Principal_ Greenleaf,” Bard can’t help that one last poke, and Thranduil takes it in stride.

“Yes, yes, we’ve all made life-altering decisions, I get it,” he grumbles, but then something in his expression changes, softens, and his next words are as honest as he can possibly make them sound, Bard knows. “Thank you.”

Bard doesn’t ask him what for, because not only does he have a pretty good idea, he’s also preoccupied in that moment, with a realization that’s a bit startling, but that he can’t very well voice out loud - the distance between them is miniscule, physically speaking at least, and he finds, to his own surprise most of all, that nothing seems easier right now than crossing it, getting a good grip on the lapels of that ( _entirely too sensible for someone who regularly wears burgundy velvet_ ) coat, and tugging that man down for a kiss.

“...You’re welcome,” he says a bit dazedly instead, and _doesn’t_ do the rest - mainly because it really is past midnight and he’s got three children waiting for him at home, but also partly because, well, innocuous as it might seem at first sight, what with the alcohol and the friendly banter and everything, there really is no coming back from something like that, and he curses the logical part of his brain for reminding him of that rather vehemently.

The taxi that Thranduil hailed a while ago arrives, and their excuse for lingering outside and waiting thus shatters, but it’s probably for the best. Bard raises his hand in a pointless little wave goodbye only _after_ Thranduil folds himself into the backseat of the car, and stands quite literally at his own doorstep until it disappears around the corner.

Some water is in order, Bard decides, to dissolve the fluff currently muddling his senses - surely when he wakes up in the morning, this warmth blossoming smack in the middle of his chest, this different rhythm to his heartbeat, will all have started making a bit more sense.

He stumbles inside and intercepts Sigrid, who fortunately doesn’t interrogate him _too_ thoroughly, and one glass of water and late-night check up on Tilda later, he’s back in his room, quiet, cool and dark, his fingers working the knot of his tie somewhat clumsily, when his phone pings with an incoming message.

**From: T. Greenleaf**

_0:11_

Burgundy velvet for life. Good night.

His youngest sleeping close by forgotten for that one second, Bard bursts into laughter, then finishes with a groan as he sinks onto his bed, hiding his head in his hands.

Right. He has the sneaking suspicion that no matter how good his sleep will end up being, it will not work on chasing away... _this,_ in the least.

-

“...Dad. _Dad!_ ”

Thranduil all but snaps awake, which is a bit ridiculous, considering it’s the middle of the day and he’s sitting in the jam-packed auditorium of his school, surrounded by children who all _want_ something from him - he does his best to concentrate on the situation at hand, and sees Legolas glaring at him with a potent mixture of confusion, concern, and a hefty amount of annoyance to boot.

“I’m listening, I’m listening,” he grumbles, shaking his head, shaking some attention back into his brain - _daydreaming_ is very unlike him.

“You sure?” Legolas quirks one eyebrow, “you don’t look like you’re all... there.”

“Oh, on the contrary,” Thranduil rubs the back of his neck, “I certainly am _all there,_ and nowhere else.”

If _all there_ equals _unable to stop thinking about someone else’s eyes (dark in the warm glow of a city night, but coming to life every time he laughed_ ), then yes, he’s definitely _all there,_ and then some.

“And?” Legolas presses on, “what do you think?”

Here, he knows he must concentrate. The fact that he’s even been invited at all to this rehearsal is a small miracle, one that he mustn’t squander by being, apparently, a distracted idiot with a hugely inconvenient crush.

 _Let’s call a spade a spade,_ his mind supplies while he discusses the particulars of the performance with his son and the other members of the small ensemble they put together. _At some point, when you weren’t looking, you let this happen to you, and while there’s virtually no going back, you should at least try to navigate it with_ some _dignity._

He had the weekend to think about their little Friday extravaganza, dinner and walk and talk and all, and so far he’s gotten precisely nowhere. Well, that’s a bit untrue, seeing as he’s come up with at least a dozen different moments when he _should have_ said something different, or done something else.

But the fact remains that he hasn’t heard from Bard since, and he’s _almost_ managed to stop obsessively checking his phone every two minutes like _he’s_ the teenager in the room.

The _actual_ teenagers manage to take his mind off things somewhat, at least - there’s not a whole lot of _actual_ rehearsing that goes into an improv performance, but they’ve molded it into something rather wonderful, something original, full of not only acting, but music, too, something wholly _theirs,_ and Thranduil couldn’t be more pleased, thrilled that they will be given this opportunity.

It’s a little difficult to believe that the fundraiser _is_ happening, and happening soon - less than two weeks from now, Director Bowman’s gamble will have either proven itself a huge success, jumpstarting the no doubt long and arduous journey towards Laketown, or it will have failed. Somehow, though, the second option remains not only unthinkable, but, among the overwhelming amount of preparations going on, _unthought of._ There isn’t a sliver of doubt in Thranduil’s mind that they _will_ succeed, and it’s an odd feeling, this certainty. This conviction that what they’re doing is good, and right, and will actually lead somewhere.

Outwardly, he would be the first to remind anyone that he _never_ invests in something he doesn’t wholeheartedly believe in, but the truth of the matter is - not that he will be admitting that out loud any time soon, or ever - he was in the mood for taking a risk, and he was curious to see what Bard Bowman would bring to the table, and both of those instincts are paying off, one way or another.

But then again, he should really have watched out for his own heedless optimism before it came back to haunt him.

The call comes when they’re driving home, Legolas having agreed to a lift for once, and Thranduil takes one look at the caller ID, and ponders taking the phone off hands-free, but Legolas _is_ wearing headphones, completely immersed in... something, so it’s probably fine.

“Director Bowman,” he greets the man jovially, “what can I do you for?”

Ah yes, cringing at one’s own choice of words immediately after they leave one’s mouth - a very good indication of the _high school_ brand of his current little... emotional frailty.

“We have a problem,” comes a terse reply, and Thranduil chuckles, resolutely _not_ disappointed.

“Oh? Do tell.”

And Bard Bowman _does_ tell, and it’s only _after_ Thranduil leaves his son at home and drives halfway across the city to extinguish _that_ fire, or maybe hours, days later, when he _keeps at it,_ that one very clear thought crystallizes in his mind, and refuses to leave him alone no matter how thoroughly he dismisses it, time and time again - if there ever were a point when this veered away from a purely business undertaking, and towards something _personal,_ he must have overlooked it rather epically, because this... Oh, this is _definitely_ going to come back to haunt him when he needs it least, but in that one shining moment out of time, he finds he doesn’t even care.

* * *

He should have known - god, he should have _known,_ should have looked at how _well_ everything was going, and that fact alone should have been his warning. Things never just _fall into place_ on their own, problems never just dissipate into thin air, and the Mayor’s Office, oh, that’s a sizable problem.

This time, he isn’t summoned, isn’t even notified in advance - it is only _after_ the very unclear, but still very dismissive email is forwarded to him, that Bard begins investigating, and things start making a bit more sense.

He understands what he’s offering, and he understands it isn’t particularly financially exciting, _yet,_ but everyone who’s agreed to work with him up until this point has _assured_ him that they don’t mind, has been kept in the loop every step of the way, and any one of them deciding to back out _now_ means not that they suddenly panicked and backpedalled, but rather that someone _made them_ do it.

And Bard is furious, but mostly with himself, for not seeing it coming - for thinking that the Mayor would leave him alone until _after_ the fundraiser, would let him actually make things _happen_ before trying to throw any _noticeable_ wrench in his plans.

But it’s dramatically less than two weeks until the island is supposed to fill with hundreds of people, and he doesn’t have _light,_ and he doesn’t have _heat_ \- the overly complicated plans for a new electrical layout of the island they spent _weeks_ negotiating go out in flames just like that, with the Mayor’s convenient _surprise appearance_ on that very date, in that very district.

Bard dashes halfway across the city to talk to the guy in charge, the guy he was _convinced_ was on their side, and receives only a shrug and a half-hearted apology - nothing is set in stone, no money exchanged hands, nobody actually approved a change that huge, _you understand how much trouble I’d be in if I refused the Mayor._

Oh, Bard understands, understands perfectly what refusing the Mayor means, but his fury rises with every fruitless phone call he makes, every nervously polite or downright coldly dismissive answer he receives.

And it certainly doesn’t help that he can’t seem to get a hold of Thranduil, either.

Beyond the first lengthy phone call informing him about the change of plans, and the handful of reassuring but somehow still agitating texts, the man seems to all but vanish off the face of the earth for the next couple of days, and Bard would never admit it out loud, but his equilibrium, what’s left of it, suffers for it. He’s used to bouncing ideas off each other at this point, he’s used to coming to Thranduil with any and all worries and working out a solution together in the nick of time, he’s used to... _the presence_ of him, he realizes, and promptly laughs that idea straight out of his mind.

After all, he’s always expected to do this alone - he went into it alone, and he’s going to have to see it through, alone.

“Bard? God, you look like hell.”

That’s Dis Oakenshield, Bard realizes, halfway through trying to tie Tilda’s stubborn shoelaces for the third time in a row _while also_ balancing his phone between his ear and shoulder, and he thinks, _oh well._

“Hi,” he huffs, “you know how it is.”

“Yeah, I got the memo,” she inclines her head, her own son only about halfway done with getting ready, too. “I tried calling you.”

“You did...?” he looks at her a bit helplessly, “I’m sorry, I’m swamped.”

“So they tell me,” she nods, which confuses him - his office did send a general update to all the performers participating in the fundraiser, not aiming to create panic or anything, but rather asking for help in what he can only hope is a very polite manner, but beyond that, Bard has literally been spending hours upon hours behind his desk, alone, never enough time to really confide in anybody. So either Dis is very observant, and he _does_ look like hell while picking up his daughter from school, or...

“Yeah, but anyway,” he grunts, heaving Tilda up into his arms as per her silent request, “nothing to worry about, we’ll get it sorted. I made some out of town calls, I’m meeting with a company tomorrow who will hopefully be able to do some last minute patches...”

“What are you talking about?” she frowns at him, “it’s taken care of.”

“It’s- huh?”

Dis stares, and Bard stares, and he can sense something mounting between them, some grand misunderstanding about to explode - and then she laughs, _cackles,_ even.

“Oh my god,” she is _beaming,_ like this is the best thing she’s ever been a witness to, “oh god, he didn’t tell you.”

Bard balks. He doesn’t need to ask who she means. Carefully, he readjusts his grip on his daughter, and his next words sound tense even though he tries very hard for the exact opposite.

“Tell me what?”

The drive to the island is _hell_ this time of day, but Bard pushes through anyway - for her part, Tilda seems very excited to be ‘taking a little trip to see Mr Hair’ despite the fact that she was one of the very last children in the afterschool club today and they should be home by now, and she babbles about fishing in the river in the backseat, but Bard can barely interact for the roar of blood in his head.

He isn’t angry, per se, just very confused, and very, very tired, he tells himself. Doesn’t change the fact that he marches down the length of the island at a speed that would put a professional athlete to shame, his daughter happily trotting along - at least someone is enjoying this.

He sees it from afar, and his stomach performs a nauseating somersault - there’s a veritable crowd of people swarming around the abandoned buildings on the far end of the island, and he scans it for a familiar golden mane, but cannot see him yet. Cannot, in fact, see anyone familiar, until...

“Director Bowman! Hi!”

“Legolas?” Bard frowns, and Thranduil’s son bounces over to him, arms full of some sort of wiring, having the gall to look _excited._

“What are you doing here?”

“I could ask you the same thing,” Bard sighs, “is, uh... is your father around?”

“Oh, yeah, he’s around here somewhere,” Legolas cranes his neck to search for him, “come with me.”

“Right,” Bard exhales, watching someone wheel around what looks like a massive sci-fi prop engine of some sort - he realizes it’s a generator, one of those very steampunk-looking ones, which raises even _more_ questions. “Right. Mind telling me what exactly is going on here?”

“How do you mean?” Legolas strides ahead with a purpose Bard can only envy him, “everything’s going according to plan, isn’t it?”

“Well, that depends,” Bard can feel his temples starting to throb uncomfortably, “what exactly _is_ the plan?”

Legolas only laughs, clearly under the impression that Bard is joking, and he suddenly wishes with all his might that the world would just _pause_ for a second - all of this is happening too fast. Dis hadn’t been very helpful either, with her _‘just stop by the island, ask him yourself’_ nonsense, and he has half a mind to call her and complain the second he’s finished here, with... whatever this is.

“Oh, there he is,” Legolas gets his mind back on track, at least, “Dad! Dad, get over here!”

Bard is so relieved at the sight of him that he almost forgets about everything else - almost.

Thranduil stands under one of the large trees by the ruined gate leading to the front yard between the derelict buildings, and all the chaos, all the commotion, seems to be centered around him, like a corner of stillness, like a rock in a river of people, and when he looks up at Bard... Well, at least he has the decency to look _a little bit_ bashful, and surprised to see him.

“Mister Hair!” Tilda exclaims, waving somewhat shyly while clutching onto Bard’s coat, and Thranduil’s look softens - he pockets his phone, waves away the people he’s been conversing with, and makes his way over to them.

“Right, I’ll leave you to it,” Legolas has the common sense to duck out of a situation right on time, and as he all but dashes away, Bard notices for the first time that a lot of the people around them are _children_ \- well, teenagers, students of Thranduil’s academy, but still. This is becoming properly surreal.

“Bard,” Thranduil looks as if he’s been caught in the act, and if Bard weren’t so baffled, so annoyed, he’d probably pay more attention to the way his name sounds coming from the man. “You’re here.”

“So I am,” he nods, “no thanks to you.”

“If it makes you feel any better, I meant to call you after this, bring you out here tomorrow.”

Right - their first properly scheduled meeting since the dinner, one that Bard has been looking forward to like a man drowning looks forward to dry land - not that Thranduil needs to know that.

“Well, I’m here _now,_ ” he says sternly, “and no, it doesn’t make me feel any better. What’s going on here?”

“What’s going on here, Mister Hair?” Tilda echoes that sentiment, and Bard realizes, right. He doesn’t exactly have anywhere to put her and pick her back up in twenty minutes, and if she is to bear witness to this particular talk, he’s going to have to make himself _not_ shout.

“Nothing sinister, I promise,” Thranduil smiles at Tilda, then turns to Bard, and something in his eyes is soft, softer than Bard is used to. “Just come with me, I’ll show you.”

“Not like I have an actual say in the matter,” Bard grumbles, and it’s Tilda who pulls at his hand to keep up with Thranduil.

“The second you called me about the unfortunate turn of events with our good friends in City Hall,” Thranduil begins explaining broadly, as is his custom, “I knew I had to move quickly to salvage this. While you dealt with all the paperwork, I rallied the forces, so to speak - Rivendell had some spare lights and wiring, and Erebor had, well, people. And so did I - you should have _seen_ my son’s face when he learned. They’d worked so hard on preparing their performance...”

“Hold on,” Bard exhales, reaching out mostly blindly to get a grasp on Thranduil’s arm - it does the job, stopping him dead in place, and his eyes are attentive and kind as he quirks his eyebrow, and Bard is, in spite of everything, still _furious._

“Why didn’t you _tell me?_ ” he demands, and it sounds more desperate than angry, “I’ve been bashing my head against the wall since Monday, and all the while we had an actual viable solution to this?!”

“Well,” Thranduil sighs, “not as such. Not yet, anyway.”

Bard opens his mouth, to let his exasperation out, but nothing really comes out. He can only sigh the sigh of someone who’s aged at least a year in the past couple of minutes, and he raises his hand to punctuate a point that doesn’t arrive for a moment.

“...What?” he manages at long last, and for his part, Thranduil looks like he’s having the time of his life, watching him flounder.

“All of this,” he gestures to the all-encompassing hubbub around them, “is just a test. We’ve got a couple of generators on loan, and we just need to see if those will be enough to power everything. There’s no telling if they’ll last the entire evening, or burn the place down in five seconds. Only _after_ I’d be absolutely sure of that, would I have told you about it, you see? False hopes, and all that. But since you’re here, I suppose you can watch.”

“Well, that’s incredibly generous of you, but-”

But the rest of that _but_ never comes, because at that precise moment, someone somewhere flips a switch, and the entire thing comes alight.

* * *

Alright, perhaps he should have gone about this differently, but it only took a couple of seconds of listening to the distress in Bard’s voice for him to go into full-on savior mode, which might ridiculous said out loud, but the truth is, Thranduil never even realized the sheer embarrassing _pathos_ of what he was doing until he saw Bard walking towards him, mere minutes ago.

And here they are, and the man looks _exhausted,_ and some distant feeling of guilt does start gnawing at Thranduil then, but... The sentiment remains the same. There is absolutely nothing the city can do to stop the fundraiser from happening, they’ve all invested far too much time, energy and money into it to allow that to happen, but mutely, privately, Thranduil wonders just _how_ stressful the past couple of days must have been for Bard, if even he has stopped believing that, albeit briefly.

He’s frustrated, that much is obvious, and Thranduil wants to show him every single little thing they’ve managed to bring here, wants to make him watch his students all but climbing the trees like monkeys for the past two hours to get the lights in place, but fortunately, someone does it for him, and at the perfect moment, too, as it turns out.

The spectacle of it takes even his breath away, even though he’d sort of anticipated it looking something like this - thousands upon thousands of little lights come alive in the bare branches of the trees like fireflies, not to mention the garlands of them lining the main road leading here, and several people exclaim in excited unison, because, against all odds, a fuse _doesn’t_ blow, and the thing _doesn’t_ immediately go up in flames...

But Thranduil, well, he only has eyes for Bard.

Little Tilda’s surprised gasp mirrors her father’s, _Papa, the lights!,_ and they both look up, Bard spinning her around carefully to take it all in, his ragged exhale turning into a smile that can’t quite be helped, and Thranduil wonders if anyone else can hear the thunderous, echoing crack with which the ancient, impenetrable casket of ice around his heart breaks in half, and, ever so slowly, begins crumbling.

Come to think of it, it might have been compromised before, ever since that night with the dinner and the walk, hairline fractures appearing with every single one of Bard’s looks, and smiles, and the thousand different subtle little ways he employed to get under Thranduil’s skin, but it doesn’t matter now.

“Looks like we’re in business,” he manages to force his voice to sound almost casual, “as long as you don’t mind the rattle.”

The generators aren’t exactly quiet, true, but at least they drown out the hammering of Thranduil’s heart in his chest when Bard looks at him like he’s seeing him for the first time, frowning still, but then something in his face shifts, changes for good, and he laughs.

“I cannot _believe you,_ ” he sighs, “you could have at least prepared me for this. Somehow. I don’t know.”

“And miss the look on your face?” Thranduil grins, nothing but honest, naked truth in those words.

“It’s so pretty, Papa,” Tilda mumbles, and Bard ruffles her hair, setting her down.

“I know, baby,” he smiles, but he’s smiling at Thranduil, and he rakes his hand through his hair, an entirely unfairly attractive gesture, and even he himself looks like he can barely believe his next words. “So... This is actually happening.”

“Of course it is. I believe I’ve said it multiple times, I don’t sign on for doomed ventures.”

“Right, and I’ve signed on to work _with_ you, so please, just... A simple text, next time,” Bard scolds him half-heartedly, “ _everything’s been taken care of, no need to fling yourself into the river, Director Bowman..._ You get my drift.”

“I do,” Thranduil nods.

“Good. And I _still_ have questions. How are we even paying for all of this?”

“Oh, most of these are Mirkwood’s lights, anyway,” Thranduil waves his hand dismissively, “which we’re willing to lend out for a very reasonable, _friendly_ price.”

“Of course you are,” Bard laughs, hands in his pockets, spinning around to take in the sight again - the test successfully over, Thranduil’s technicians begin shutting off the lights one by one, but none of the magic is lost.

“I’ll forward you the actual numbers soon, don’t worry,” Thranduil adds, and the gratitude in Bard’s eyes is genuine.

“I’d appreciate it.”

He wonders then, if this is the time or place to tell him what it actually cost, but... no. They’re under enough stress as it is. The time for that will come later, _after_ everything is securely on its way - or, alternatively, never.

“You’re turning into quite the resident altruist,” Bard accuses him then, and Thranduil scoffs.

“What’s an owl-too-ist, Papa?” Tilda inquires, and Bard chuckles, and his look is searing itself into Thranduil’s very soul, he thinks.

“That would be someone who does nice things for others simply out of the goodness of his heart.”

“Yes, it’s a dreadful thing to become when you’re not looking,” Thranduil sighs, “not to mention all _your_ fault.”

“For that, I’ll gladly take the blame,” Bard shrugs, and Thranduil begins wondering about other things, things he never voices out loud that evening - if the look in Bard’s eyes really is as perfect a mirror to what he himself is feeling. If the warmth of this moment between them, punctuated by the chatter of the island coming alive around them, punctuated by actual bloody _fairy lights,_ is something only Thranduil himself is feeling quite so acutely, like a pressure on his chest he can’t quite get rid of, or if that, too, might be mutual.

“Dad! Dad, we did it!”

But then, of course, _the other_ thing they have in common catches up with him - Legolas’ excitement is infectious, and he looks years younger, _thrilled_ as he hurries over to Thranduil.

“Yes, yes, I’ve noticed,” Thranduil chuckles, “a job well done.”

“Told you it would work,” Legolas is beaming at him, and Thranduil takes the risk, reaching out and squeezing his arm briefly, and his son’s smile never dims, and that, too, is a victory in and of itself.

As well as it is a confirmation of what he already knows - this is ultimately what keeps Bard and him at a distance he doesn’t know how to cross yet. Their children, always on the forefront of their mind. It’s in the smile Bard casts him after he heaves Tilda back into his arms, the girl clearly getting tired, and it’s in the look, the nod that Thranduil sends his way instead of all the words he means to say, when Legolas starts tugging him away to show him something, and he can’t help but follow, of course.

It’s in the way he _doesn’t_ find out what it would be like to actually close the gap between them that day, even though he thinks of nothing else.

It’s in the way his _wishes_ don’t always align with his _opportunities,_ and vice versa.

It’s all of those things, but mostly it’s the incessant urge to ignore all of them, override his own ever-present logic, and pull the man into a kiss he’s been thinking of ever since they walked the length of the city side by side at night, and Thranduil couldn’t remember when last he’d laughed as much, as often.

It’s all of _that,_ that tells him, in no uncertain terms, just how much _trouble_ he’s currently in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh boy, alright, here we are! My apologies for the delay on this one, but a global pandemic really has a way of throwing a wrench in one's plans. But anyway, we're getting... somewhere! There's always a point in every single chapter of this thing when I check the wordcount, it's around 5 or 6k, and I'm like oh okay nice! This one might not be that long! ...And then I end up with nine thousand words. Hopefully it's a satisfactory nine thousand. I've been looking forward to writing the last scene with the fairy lights for quite some time, it's been with me ever since the early stages of planning this story. Needless to say, both Bard and Thranduil are now firmly in _oh god I have a crush_ territory, so we can start moving in more exciting directions, at more exciting speeds!


End file.
